


Chiaroscuro

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Digimon - All Media Types, Digimon Frontier
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Dark, End of the World, Gen, Prophecies, Real world, Slow madness, no comfort, post season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3211883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Post-Season. It is when his mother reaches out to touch his bandanna and says, “Koichi, what an unusual look,” that Koji realizes his brother does not have to be dead. (Or: it is said that, “when digimon enter the human world, they will destroy it utterly” - 4x48. But no one considered that the legendary warriors are, themselves, now part-digimon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Koji(?)

**Author's Note:**

> In this story, Koichi dies at the hospital at the end of the season. This picks up immediately after.  
> Will use English dub names.

It is when his mother reaches out to touch his bandanna and says, “Koichi, what an unusual look,” that Koji realizes his brother does not have to be dead.

To see her again is like viewing a mirror to the past, distorted by some artist's particularly cruel scale of time. She looks aged, and aged unduly. Koichi told him, in the digital world, that their mother had worked hard to raise him alone. Now Koji realizes the truth in this statement. Their mother has gray hairs, a bent back. Lines of worry wrinkle her face. She is thirty-five years old.

And here is Koji, to tell her that her son is dead.

“I brought you flowers,” he says, stalling for time.

“Oh! How sweet – but, where have you been?” asks the mother he has not seen in nine years. “Dinner is getting cold. You know we always eat at 5:30 sharp.”

“I – I'm sorry. I missed a train.”

“Well, call next time.” She folds a napkin, then tucks away a strand of silver hair. “Come, eat.”

Mute, Koji does.

This is not how he imagined their first meeting, either during his time in the digital world or more recently, in the hospital, weeping over his brother's broken body. The brother he has known for months, and for minutes. How can he explain his shared grief, his understanding, to this woman?

Instead, he eats in silence, and winces at the clatter of every cup.

Mother doesn't seem to notice. She smiles when he looks her way, but the smile dims when he does not. She is tired. They are both tired.

A knock comes at the door.

Mother moves to stand, but Koji shakes his head. “I'll answer,” he insists, and she smiles tiredly, again, and doesn't protest.

Koji turns his back on her, trying to look confident, and moves through this unfamiliar house doing his best not to seem unnerved. He finds the front door and opens it to see an officer standing there. The man has a solemn, business-like aspect to his stance that breaks as he gets a look at Koji.

“I - “ The man clears his throat. “Excuse me – may I ask your name?”

Koji does not have to think.

“Koichi Kimura.”

The officer looks plainly baffled. He looks down at a few files in his hand, then flips one open. He squints up at Koji with plain disbelief.

“You are,” the man agrees, plainly confused by this fact. “Excuse me, but were you at the Shibuya Train Terminal earlier today?”

“Yes. Someone stole my phone and wallet there.”

“Ah! That might explain it.” The man looks relieved to have a sensible answer. Koji's heart clenches as he realizes what he is doing – branding Koichi as a nameless thief. But his brother would understand. “Well, I'll arrange for you to have those picked up... I apologize for the confusion.”

“Of course,” Koji says, and does not add that the officer has not even said why he came by in the first place.

When he goes back inside, his mother looks up, and asks, “Who was at the door?”

Koji replies, “No one important.”

* * *

 

Koji spends awhile puttering around the quiet areas of the house, watching his mother. It is hard not to stare. He tries not to look obvious. He picks up a book, and pretends to leaf through it when she looks at him.

Koichi had seemed reserved, kind, shy. This should not be unusual behavior. But it is hard to tell. Koji had known him only in death.

Finally he excuses himself, claiming exhaustion. Mother nods absently, and he turns around, hesitantly, to look for Koichi's room.

When he steps through the door, a wave of nostalgia hits him so fiercely that Koji has to close the door behind him, quickly, to be sure that he is alone when he falls shuddering to the ground.

There is something horrible, hollowly familiar in the whole room. The place has all the clutter that might be expected of a young boy, but Koji can see his brother's personality peering through the scattered clothes and miscellanea. Books and notebooks are strewn over the floor next to a chair – did Koichi like reading? Writing? Did he hate school, or love it? Koji hasn't given a thought as to how he will balance attending two schools. He will manage that, too, he decides suddenly.

There is a  _biwa_ in one corner of the room. Koichi had never mentioned playing. 

Koji runs his fingers over the walls, the dog-eared books, the worn desk. No dust. Of course not. Of course not. Everything is awaiting Koichi's return, but Koichi...

Not bothering to undress, Koji sags onto the bed, shaping one hand into a fist and curling one an over his face against the assaulting scent that rises from the sheets. Tears prick unwillingly from his eyes, but he can't make a sound; this, too, must be kept hidden.

He turns the lights off, when he finally tries to sleep, but leaves on one small lamp; and it is this he watches, until the light sears into his eyelids, as he falls into an uneasy rest.

* * *

 

The next day, Koji goes to his father's house. Emi, his stepmother, is at the window when he approaches, and comes out to meet him at the stoop.

“Koji!” She exclaim, relieved. “I'm so glad you're alright - “

“Alright?” Koji asks.

Suddenly, in a rush, he remembers. Yesterday was her and his father's third wedding anniversary. He intended to give her flowers. They went, instead, to his biological mother – an intended mourning gift which he'd thought Emi would not begrudge her.

Today, he has nothing.

Emi's words trail off, awkwardly, and she is left staring at him. A small touch of red appears in her cheeks. They parted uncomfortably, Koji remembers. His father had remonstrated Koji for his distance, much to Emi's embarrassment. He could still bridge the gap, though, even without flowers. Could just explain that he accepts Emi, and -

“Koji?”

Minamoto Juro follows behind his wife, taking a protective stance behind her left shoulder. His countenance exudes disappointment and distance with the situation. He has already assessed Koji, and decided upon his failings.

It makes Koji angry.

“You shouldn't worry your mother like this, Koji,” says his father coolly.

“Oh, Juro, don't - “

And Koji, all thoughts of reconciliation forgotten, shoulders past them and walks inside, down the hall, and into his room.

It seems just as cold, and just as alien as his brother's.

* * *

 

Koji remembers, as though from a dream, that before his trip to the digital world he had been accustomed to leaving the house frequently enough. He does not know what Koichi's habits were, but he keeps telling his mother that he is going for walks, and she never says anything.

He falls into a routine, and it comes with disturbing ease. His mother, he learns, leaves for work early and has a long commute. She returns late – very late, when it is already dark. Koichi must have been accustomed to long periods alone, he thinks. But for Koji, this is convenient.

He is sure to see his mother away in the morning, which she does not seem to find strange. Then, when she is gone, he takes his cellphone and Koichi's as well – for this is the phone his mother will call, if she wants to talk to him – and he leaves quickly, taking a bus across town to his father's house. He gets home before his father and stepmother even wake, in time to join his smiling, oblivious family for breakfast.

Either his father or Emi are frequently around, but Koji knows how much autonomy he has at his own home, at least. It is not strange for him to vanish for long periods of the day, especially now, when he is thought to be bitter about his father's second marriage. No one says anything if he is not around, the one day Mother has a leave-day from work, or if he absconds to his 'room' every night right after dinner, and actually slides out his window to sprint across town and go back to Mother's before she can get home.

It is, however, exhausting.

Sometimes, Koji make an excuse for why he might be gone at night. He is at the midnight premiere of a movie, or he might be staying late at an internet cafe – an excuse that gains him puzzled glances, as he has never been interested in computers, games, or other materials, but this at least provides a ready explanation for his absence that does not require any collaboration. His father seems mostly relieved that he doesn't cause a fuss; Emi seems concerned with his distance, but reluctant to push him. And Mother, though she gives him strained, worried glances, has larger concerns than how Koichi spends his free time. “Be safe,” she says.

Other times, even when he tries, Koji finds he can't sleep at all. He slips out the window with his _katana_ and does katas in the yard. Even under the new moon, when the clouds hang thick and heavy and blot out the stars, the pitted metal of his blade gleams bright and silver under his eyes. He looks, and the world rings with focus, shivering into a clarity possibly even outmatched by the day. Sometimes, he does not think he needs to sleep at all – that he could stay here, wandering through the dusk, or in the twilight hours of the rising and setting sun, and gain energy from the darkness.

And when this thought occurs to him – this dangerous, niggling thought – he slips back inside, switches on all his lamps, and stares wide-eyed at the wall, wishing for a sleep that he knows will never come.

* * *

 

This persists for a few weeks, and Koji tells himself, yes, he can do this. He can do this. School will be difficult, he's still planning the logistics of that, but – this is working. He can _do_ this.

Then, one day, while he's sprinting from his father's house to his mother's, a familiar shape steps into his path. Koji skids to a halt, and it feels like the world is crashing down around him, his comfortable numbness shattered.

_What -_

“Koji!”

“Takuya?”

Kanbara Takuya frowns at him. “Where have you been, Koji? I haven't heard from you since we've returned from the digital world.”

“I - “

“In fact,” Takuya continues, “None of us have heard from you – what gives?”

Koji takes a step back. “I – I don't have time for this.”

Takuya crosses his arms. _“Really.”_

Clenching his fists, Koji stiffens. He moves as if to stalk past the other boy, but Takuya shifts, blocking his way.

“Oh, no! I've seen that look before. Come on, Koji - “

“Out of my way, Takuya.”

“Is this about Koichi?”

_“Out. Of. My. Way.”_

Takuya shakes his head. “You can't just shut us out like this, Koji.”

“I'm not trying to.”

“I thought we were past this! You don't have to do everything alone anymore. We're a team. If somethings bothering you - “

“It's not that, it's just –“ Koji's mind races. “I haven't seen my family in so long. I just need – I need some time with them. To figure things out. After...”

Koji stops. His voice cracks on the lie, half-wrought details crumbling over his tongue. Takuya's concern shines from his eyes. Clenching his jaw, Koji twists away -

And then Takuya is reaching out, touching his arm, his shoulder. “Hey, of course you do,” he says, surprisingly soft. “But you just – you don't _have_ to be alone, okay?”

“I know.”

“Alright. Alright. Whatever works, Koji.” Takuya looks uncertain. “I mean, if you really - “

 _“Thank you,_ Takuya,” Koji stresses. “Look, I really need to go. Okay?”

“...Okay, but, really, you should - “

“Talk to you, sure, _later.”_

And, with a brief wave, Koji ducks his head and keeps moving.

They both know it'll be a long time before they speak again.

* * *

 

_**Interlude of Wind** _

* * *

 

“This day couldn't be better,” Zoe decides. “It's so beautiful right now, just look!”

Zoe's mother, Joruri, smiles. “A perfect day for some mother-daughter shopping,” she says. “Why don't you tell me if you see any place interesting?”

Zoe nods cheerfully.

Her father has begged off the excursion, which Zoe thinks is a little unfair, because Joruri accompanied the other two during a hiking trip just a few weeks ago even though she hates physical activities with a passion. But the woman, when Zoe had asked, had only laughed off her husband's absence. “Men can be silly, dear. They can have the strangest ideas about masculine pride. More spending money for us, yes?”

And, well, Zoe can hardly argue with  _that._

So the two walk around, inspecting store windows and enjoying the early autumn air. Zoe separates from her mother briefly to purchase a lovely, sleek gray scarf; when she returns, her mother is examining a pair of hair clasps in the shape of silver butterflies.

“Those are lovely,  _Mamma.”_

“Yes... I'm not sure I would wear them, though.”

“Then why...?”

“Oh, they just make me think of you, actually.”

“Me?”

Joruri smiles a little. “Beautiful like my beautiful daughter! Why not?” She taps Zoe on the cheek. “Let's try another store.

When they leave, burdened by now with a few bags, wind is whistling down the road, whipping brusquely at their clothes and threatening to tear away their prizes. Zoe clutches her purchases tighter.

“I wonder if there's a storm coming,” her mother says.

“I don't think so... But it is a little dark,” Zoe adds. “Maybe we should be getting back.”

Joruri, knowing Zoe's feelings about the dark, agrees.

Hooking their free arms, the two struggle against the wind and begin to walk along the sidewalk. But suddenly a gust of air buffets the two, and Zoe sees her new scarf come falling out of her bag, tumbling across the dirty pavement into the road.

“Oh no!” Without thinking, Zoe detaches from her mother's arm, drops her bag, and jumps after the scarf.

“Zoe!”

The stupidity of this move hits Zoe in an instant – right as a blaring car horn cuts through the air, and she looks up into the lights of an incoming car.

Gasping, Zoe turns back toward the road – but in doing so she stumbles and falls backward. She glimpses her mother's stricken face as she falls, knowing that in a second the car will hit, and -

\- and then she is being pushed back, back, a broad sweep of motion, and she is on the  _opposite_ sidewalk, the car passing harmlessly by. Joruri is staring at her, relieved and stunned from across the street, and Zoe -

_I couldn't have fallen that far,_ she thinks.  _I couldn't, I couldn't..._

Her heart pounds in her chest. A gust of wind pushes the hair back from her face, and makes the roar of blood in her ears seem deafening.

When it's safe, Joruri rushes across the road, clasps Zoe to her chest, and hugs her tightly. “Oh, Zoe! Are you alright? I thought you were gone... How did you move so quickly? I saw you fall, and then...”

Behind Jururi, a pile of leaves spins and swirls into a small spiral, falters, and lets the leaves scatter again.

“I guess you didn't see everything that happened,” Zoe says finally.

“It was frightening,” Joruri agrees.

Frightening. Very frightening. Zoe reaches into her pocket, touching the slim outline of a very normal purple and pink cell phone.

She swears, for a moment, that it feels warm under her fingers.

* * *

 

“Koichi,” Mother calls, and Koji turns his head automatically, now. During his time in the digital world, he trained himself _not_ to react when the others would use the so-similar name of his brother; now the name is his, also, and he does not even think.

“Yes?”

“There is a letter for you, from your old art tutor,” she says, and hands it to him.

_Art tutor?_

“Ms. Arita is so kind,” Mother says. “I wish we still had money for lessons. I never see you practice anymore, Koichi.”

“Oh,” Koji says. “It's just, uh, I'm not that good...”

“Nonsense! And how will get better, if you don't practice?” Smilingly, she taps him on the side of the head. “My Koichi, saying you have no skill! Don't lie to your mother, now.”

Koji doesn't know what to say.

“Um, sorry,” he mumbles finally.

She laughs at him.

Koji takes the letter and moves away to read it.

_Dear Koichi,_

_I apologize for neglecting to write for such a long while. I hope you have been doing well? Your last sketches reached me and were well-received by your old classmates. I have attached their comments, and an etching Kumi Goto asked I pass on to you._

_We have missed you here, Koichi, though I understand the circumstances of your removal. Still, I ask that you do not be reluctant to keep up this correspondence. The contents of your latest letter disturbed me._

_I am sure that fortune shall change soon. My best wishes to your mother. Please, take care of yourself. I look forward to hearing from you again soon._

_-Arita Umeko_

What disturbing content did Koichi send? Why would Koichi talk so frequently with his old teacher? An artist... Koichi had never mentioned that, either.

There is a lot, Koji is finding, that Koichi never mentioned.

Quietly, Koji puts aside the letter, then takes up the small slip of paper that came with it.

The etching that Ms. Arita spoke of, from 'Kumi Goto', shows half the face of a man sunk in shadow. His eye is black coal, but burns fiercely from the weathered land of his face. His mouth twists in a low sneer, his skin pitted with hollow pores and dank sweat. There is a wildness, something desperate and savage, to his expression. But his eye – his eye seems so familiar -

Koji puts the paper, and the letter, back in the broken envelope. He goes to Koichi's room, leaves the envelope on his – no, _Koichi's,_ he reminds himself – bed, and roots around the room until he find a large box in the dresser. Opening it, he finds a dozen black pencils of different sizes, black pens, thick drawing-paper...

 _Another thing to learn,_ he thinks.

This, too, is worth it.

* * *

 

Minamoto Juro seems to have little interest in where his son disappears to each day, but this is not the same as saying he does not care. “You could make an effort,” he says often. “You could try to be around more. To be a part of this family.”

Koji could. He has tried, though Juro does not know it. And he thinks, _this, does this qualify as you making an effort, Dad?_

So he says nothing.

* * *

 

Koji draws long and often at his mother's house, hidden away in his room. Sometimes he goes out in the yard, shielding the paper if his mother walks by so she can't see his infantile attempts. She does not seem to find this strange.

Koichi seems like the type to draw natural scenes, flowers and animals and skylines, the beauty in a frozen drop of water or a cloudy day. So Koji does this, too, sweeping his pencil over the paper in uneven strokes that slowly grow more frustrated. He breaks a few pencils, the first days, and ruins paper by piercing the sheets with holes born of impatience. But he learns, and as his lines grow more clean his patience grows, too, and his appreciation.

Sometimes, too, in the corners of the pages he writes in styled kanji, _Koichi, Koichi, Koichi,_ and tells himself he is practicing his signature for his pictures.

It feels more, though, like he is simply signing his name.

* * *

 

“Hey, hey. You look familiar.”

Koji turns around.

He is walking through the streets between his two lives. The girl is about his own age. He is certain he has never seen her before in his life.

“I'm Sanda Hanae.”

“Sorry. I don't think so.

“Maybe we went to school together,” she says. “Sendagaya Elementary?”

Koji pauses. “I don't think so,” he repeats.

“You don't _think?”_

“I – definitely not,” he says. “Excuse me...”

* * *

 

One day, Koji casually brings out the  _biwa_ he has practiced on so long. It is hard to judge what Koichi's skill might have been, but Koji has mastered a set of scales and a short, simple song, so on the hope that Mother does not make any requests he sits down in the main room and plays a short piece, hands moving flawlessly over the instrument's clean strings.

He hopes he is not making even more of an insult of Koichi's memory.

When he finishes he looks up, heart pounding, and finds that his mother is staring at him in amazement. “Koichi,” she says. “Your grandmother gave you that old thing years ago. When did you learn to play?”

* * *

 

“Oh!”

Emi winces, touching her side as Koji helps her set down the last of the grocery-bags. “Ah, look at me, getting winded just walking around. I don't get out enough...”

Koji hums noncommittally. He turns around.

“Koji...”

He stops.

“Please, talk to me. I know things are hard between us, but I thought they were getting better... I don't want to pressure you, really. But I – I would love to at least be your friend, if you'd let me. Maybe we could just talk...?”

Koji looks at her.

Turns his head.

“I'm sorry. Maybe some other time.”

He walks to his room, and has to turn up his music to pretend that he doesn't hear the soft, restrained sound of weeping through the thin old walls.

But unfortunately, he does – for once – have other matters to attend to.

Specifically, the logistics of attending two schools at once, without letting any of his three parents notice.

Trying to use an illness as an excuse will likely be his only option – but that will require doctor's confirmation, and discussions between the administration and his parents. He is uncertain how to get around these issues. Then, an idea hits him. A dangerous idea.

Koji will be entering lower secondary school this year. It occurs to him that none of his teachers at this new school – or Koichi's new school – will have any idea what his parent's look like.

Theoretically, if he can find _any_ random adults to stand-in for his parents and go along with his story...

Koji sighs. _This is crazy._

What if his parents ever need to talk to his teachers themselves? It could all fall apart so easily, but...

_It's my only chance._

* * *

 

Koji is almost disappointed by how _not_ suspicious the apparently dangerous parts of Ueno are. This, the internet assures him, is one of the most dangerous cities in Japan.

...It occurs to him somewhat belatedly that the internet may not, actually, be the best way to find yourself criminal help.

(Still, it only takes about two hours for him to find a few older prostitutes – male and female – who are happy to pose as his parents for a few hours every now and then. So that's something, at least.)

* * *

 

Koji's hand is cramped and aching when he greets his mother, who looks weary after a long day of work. He brushes pencil shaving from one hand, absently. He is one step closer to the perfect disguise. “Would you like to see one of my pictures, Mom?”

Perhaps he should have said _sketches,_ or _pieces,_ or something else fancy? He does not feel like an artist, really. But his mother doesn't seem suspicious. She brightens at the thought, shedding her coat. “I'd love to, dear.”

Smiling, he retrieves the one he has in mind.

When he returns, she stares at it for awhile in silence.

“...Is... is something wrong?”

“I – no! No, it's wonderful, I just...”

The picture is something he had to sketch inside – a tree being swept back by furious winds in the midst of a storm. He's still not very good, he thinks – his eyes catch the shaky lines, the places where he simply _can't_ figure out the shading - but he practices every day, trying to learn new techniques.

“What is it?”

“It's just – well, you've always drawn people, in the past, and such peaceful people... It's so different is all. Well done, but different.” She looks up at Koji, smiling, but this falters at the look on his face. “It... it really is good, dear, to change things now and again...”

“Change,” Koji echoes. “Yeah.” He takes the paper back, and goes upstairs.

* * *

 

_**Interlude of Thunder** _

* * *

 

_“...and in other news, there has been a strange concentration of storms around Tokyo that has been leaving meteorologists baffled...”_

“Bye mom, I'll be back later!”

J.P. shoots out the door without waiting for a response, patting his pockets to check that he hasn't forgotten anything. Yen – spare chocolate – phone...

It's a sunny day, and he meets up with his friends from school in a park. Hachemon and Shohei are standing by a tree. He grins when he sees a girl from his class, Miki Hitomi, standing sullenly to the side and scuffing her blue shoes against the grass, but the smile drops when he notices what Shohei is holding.

“Soccer?” he whines. “Really?”

“It's my turn to pick,” pronounces Hachemon.

Any hope of fun having been destroyed, J.P. sighs but doesn't offer any further protest. He does, however, side-eye his friends as Miki meanders slowly around, eyes on the sky, looking bored.

“And, her...?”

“Hachemon invited her, too,” says Shohei, not sounding very thrilled.

“Um, okay.”

They kick around the ball for awhile, making up increasingly ludicrous rules in an attempt to make a three-person game more interesting. Miki walks around, arms crossed, and doesn't seem interested in joining. J.P. wonders why she came.

Maybe, he thinks, she wants to join in, but feels shy or doesn't know how. He tries to wave her over, again and again. “Come on, Miki,” he calls, smiling. “You and me, we can beat these guys, right?”

Miki just looks at him.

Shohei and Hachemon raise their eyebrows.

Under his breath, J.P. mutters, “Or maybe not...”

He wonders if he should just outright _ask_ Miki what she's hoping to accomplish here, but as he's considering this possibly-foolish course of action, a forbidding rumble of noise cuts off his musings. J.P. blinks as a drop of moisture lands on his noise, as though on cue.

“Aw, it's raining _again?”_ Hachemon complains.

“Yeah, it always seems to be raining when we want to do stuff,” J.P. agrees. For a second, he's tempted to sulk; then he remembers that he didn't really want to play soccer, anyway. Sports aren't exactly his thing. “Hey, how about we go to the arcade?”

Everyone agrees to this idea. A boom of thunder hastens their departure, and the group makes a quick, scuttling run for the arcade.

Shohei and Hachemon break off as soon as they get inside, making beelines for their well-loved and familiar machines. Miki moves briskly to a nearby wall, then looks over the whole place.

J.P. wavers a moment. “If you don't have any _yen,_ I can pay,” he offers.

“I'm fine,” she says.

“ - Okay.”

J.P. wanders around awhile, feeling a bit of his enthusiasm fade. Finally he sits himself in front of an open, one-player console – an old-fashioned adventure scenario - and starts up a quick game.

“I've still got it,” he mutters smugly. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Miki walk over, twirling a strand of glossy black hair with her finger, watching him. He ignores her.

He's just about to beat a level when a loud _boom_ of thunder causes a few people to jump, and just a second later the entire room goes dark.

J.P. hears gasps, and someone screams, which is a complete overreaction. The windows are covered – arcades are meant to be pretty dark – but if someone would just open a door the place would be bright enough. Still, he feels annoyed.

“This sucks,” he hears Miki say.

A spark of anger runs through him. “What does it matter to you? You've just been standing around all day.”

Silence. Irrationally, J.P. thinks, _I was so close to the next level, too -_

“Stupid machine!”

J.P. slams his hands on the flat surface of the keyboard, and feels something _spark._

A crackle of blue lightning surges under his fingertips, tugging outward from the boy and spreading out over the console. J.P. shudders, jerking back as arcs of energy spill over the floor, then race up cords and cables.

With a hum, the lights come on, and everyone in the room starts speaking again in an explosive chatter.

“What was _that?”_

Flinching, J.P. spins around to look at Miki.

For the first time, she's showing signs of an actual expression; uncertainty, alarm, and something that he might even call _fear._

J.P. looks down at his hands. The tips of his fingers tingle softly, numbly. He reaches out to touch a chair next to him, and flinches as a spark of static electricity jumps to his palm.

“I don't know,” he says. “I – I really don't know...”

* * *

 

For some reason – perhaps because he is, in fact, a masochist at heart – Koji spends the first week of the schoolyear at Koichi's school, Harajukugaien.

People smile at him in the halls, then glance away, disconcerted when he only looks coldly back. Girls come up specifically to compliment him on his new hair choice – or, in some cases, to complain about it. Koji is baffled.

_Is this your life, too, Koichi?_

He doesn't think he can copy that – having friends. Being sociable with people. And he has failed at so much else, already...

“Koichi!”

Koji turns. A student about his own age walks up to him; delicately-boned, short, dark haired, with disconcerting pale eyes. “How are you, Koichi?”

A warning bell rings. “About to be late,” Koji says. He shoulders his bag and walks away, and the boy stares after him, desolate.

* * *

 

The boy's name turns out to be Kinmochi, Koji learns. It is necessary to learn this because the other won't stop following him.

“Koichi, come on!” Between classes, the boy has planted himself right in Koji's path, ignoring stares. “What's wrong?”

Koji shrugs, averting his eyes.

This Kinmochi is clearly a friend of Koichi's. For the sake of appearances, it would be best, technically, if Koji were to be his friend too. And he knows, logically, that it is ridiculous to think that Kinmochi will look at him, notice his differences, and come to the conclusion that Koichi has been replaced by a twin. It is, after all, a ridiculous – ludicrous – thought, and even Mother, who knows of Koji's existence, has suspected nothing.

“I know we fought,” Kinmochi says. “But you haven't even looked at me since classes started.”

He tries to imagine a new scenario: Takuya dies, and Koji doesn't realize. Instead he just goes on, interacting with some insane doppelganger – maybe some ghoulish digimon or spirit, with his luck – and never learns the truth, while somewhere Takuya's bones decay slowly into the earth.

“And I know, okay, maybe, maybe I said some stuff I shouldn't have last spring, but – Koichi? Koichi, are you alright?”

“You need to stay away from me,” Koji says harshly.

Kinmochi flinches. “Koichi - !”

_Koichi, Koichi, Koichi._

Koji shoulders past the teen, and makes his way, alone, through the lonely halls of his brother's world.

* * *

 

_Ah, Koichi, Koichi, why are you frowning?_

_Koichi, don't we always partner together? Did I offend you?_

_Koichi, come back, why do you look so sad, Koichi -_

It is harder, far harder, than Koji would imagine to keep up this pretense all day at school. He feels like he is actually wearing Koichi's skin over his own, a grotesque costume that will burst if anyone pushes too closely. _Koichi,_ they say, and he answers every time, with a brittle smile, learning to respond to the name as his own. Because it is his name, now. He is Koji-Koichi-Lobomon-Loweemon, all these names and more roaring under the rush of blood in his ears as questioning eyes look over his stolen skin, his face, his clothes, and force him into the place of his dead brother.

Ah, but then, no one is dead – not really.

“It's such a gruesome way to go, poison,” says someone a desk over, gesturing at her book minutes before class is due to start. “Choking on her own spit, waiting to die, knowing it's about to happen - “

“Quicker than other ways. Less painful, too, I bet.”

 _Koichi, Koichi,_ he hears, and the boy with the bandanna turns around, but no one is calling his name.

“How would you like to die?”

“In my sleep.”

“That's boring. I'd want something with excitement. I'd want to help people – do something heroic, you know?”

“Heroism sounds painful.”

_Koichi..._

“It could be fast, I guess. I mean, it doesn't last long _relatively speaking..._ Might as well make the most of your last moments, right?”

* * *

 

The child of light and dark is split between two lives again, but this time, his struggle is more mundane. One day, he attends a school as Koji Minamoto; the next, he is across town as Koichi Kimura. On test days he has to make exceptions. His grades suffer. It is worth it. His father is angry. His mothers are angry. Everyone is angry, but it does not matter. Between the stress of two loads of schoolwork and fleeing between houses he wanders through the roads, soaking up sunbeams in the day. He is bright, burning, radiant. At night, he makes himself small and quick and silent, flitting through shade and shadow.

Sleep was always an illusion, he thinks – something mysterious, something elusive caught between the worlds of light and dark. And if the master of each gains both these dominions, it is a small price to forfeit the boundary between.

A very small price, he tells himself.

Really.

* * *

 

“Koji,” says Emi. “I was thinking, it would be nice if we could have some time to ourselves. Just you and me. The International Kendo Federation is holding an event downtown tomorrow. There's a few open matches – I thought maybe we could go and watch...”

The teen knows his stepmother has no interest in kendo, and the offer is a very blatant attempt to appeal to his interests.

He feels stretched thin in all the wrong places. For a moment, the proposition leaves him not just nervous, but sincerely confused. Of course he cannot leave with Emi tomorrow. Koji does not exist tomorrow. Emi will not have a son tomorrow.

Then he remembers that Emi is not permitted to _know_ that 'Koji' is light-amid-darkness, existing only half the year, and some of his confusion eases.

“Sure,” he says, with an easy smile, because the teen is a boy is a fool. “That sounds fine.”

Emi's eyes search his eyes for sincerity. Seeing no deception, she offers a hesitant smile in turn.

(She does not, cannot know that there is no deception on his face only because it is hard _not_ to be honest, when the truth has become so blurred)

* * *

 

School records show that Kimura Koichi does not attend classes the next week. Someone under the name of Minamoto Koji does, however, attend Hiroo Junior High, collecting his late assignments and mentally preparing vague answers about his illness (purposely vague, because what kid wants to talk about his chronic illness?) in case anyone has questions.

No one really notices.

Emi picks up her son in a sensible black car after classes end. He sits quietly in the passenger's seat, hands folded.

“Did you have a nice day, Koji?”

“Sure.”

A pause.

“How are your classes?”

“Fine.”

Silence.

“What about your friends?”

The teen looks out the window. They are moving slowly through the congested city traffic. Bright signs offend his eyes, and he closes his eyes shut tight.

Today is not a day where he should be in the sun, or look at the sky, or -

“Koji?”

\- or any of those things. It would be easier, he thinks suddenly, at the other house. Light and darkness, indeed. Perhaps that is the difference. It has nothing to do with personality, but he can never hide, in this half of life, but in the other, it is so easy to sink into the shadows -

“ _Koji!_ Are you listening to me?”

He jerks away from the window, alerted only by his stepmother's suddenly high tone. “What? I – I'm sorry. I was just – what did you say?”

He turns. Emi is staring at him hard, eyes glittering with something undefinable. Her eyes slide back to the road. “If you don't want to be here, Ko - “

“I didn't say that.”

There's another, lengthy pause.

“...I asked about your friends.”

Maybe it's the tension that makes him so hasty; he just wants to answer, quickly, and be done with it, so he shifts back against his chair, shrugs, and says, “I don't really have any, I guess.”

“Don't have any? How could you not have any?”

That seems like a dumb question.

“Because I don't.”

Emi falls silent.

Takuya is a friend, he thinks. A friend to both sides of him. J.P. and Zoe and Tommy are friends.

 _Were_ friends.

Because you talk to friends, don't you? You have to – that's how friendship works, he's pretty sure, and he hasn't spoken to any of the others in nearly two months, barring that one, disastrous meeting with Takuya...

 _Do the dead have friends?_ He wonders.

Emi gives up on small-talk, perhaps sensing that her choice of topics has hardly served to lift his mood. They arrive shortly, and he turns his head to see that a small enclosed area has drawn a crowd in a nearby park.

Emi finds a place for the car, and they get out and walk over. “You're going to have to explain how this works,” she says lightly. “I don't know much about kendo.”

“Uh-huh.”

Emi sighs.

Her son would feel bad, but he's not sure how to be anything except what he is. Emi takes it personally, perhaps, when he is unsociable; thinks it is a reflection on her, or their relationship, and does not realize that he tries with her – more than anyone – to be sociable.

 _She wouldn't believe me, even if I did tell her,_ the boy reflects. _\- I wouldn't believe me, either._

Because kend ō ka fight barefoot, they typically have wooden floors. It seems strange, to have a gathering outside like this, but a portable arena has been carefully laid out and it looks suitable to the occasion.

As the two watch pair after pair of kend ō ka spar, the boy tilts his head. This is, indeed, more interesting than his own training in the discipline. There are some techniques not permitted to beginning students.

“Look at that,” he says suddenly.

“What?” asks Emi, startled.

“In kendo, you strike or you thrust – but you're only allowed to thrust at the throat. See, the man at the left, he prefers using thrusts.”

“Oh! I never knew that.”

The teen hums, eyes glued to the match. Emi's voice sounds a bit warmer.

It's very dangerous, to use a thrust in kendo. He rarely dares – that can kill someone, after all.

His eyes stay on the wooden katanas, and the fragile arch of one man's neck, until the match is called to an end.

* * *

 

“It looks like I've mixed up the papers,” says Mr. Sugimura as Koji sits in class at Hiroo Junior High. He looks up, and Mr. Sugimura holds a paper in front of the class. “But I don't recognize this name... Do any of you know a 'Kimura Koichi?”

* * *

 

_**Interlude of Ice** _

* * *

 

“Aw, come on, Yutaka, I won't be a pest - “

“Sorry, Tommy. We're seeing an older kid movie, okay?”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means... Um... Look, you can walk home, can't you?”

“Yeah, but...”

“See you tonight!”

Tommy sighs wistfully as his brother goes off with his friends. Since returning from the digital-world he's gotten on better with his brother, but Yutaka seems suspicious of this change in Tommy, stubbornly seeing him as the same, entitled child of before.  _I'll show him,_ Tommy thinks. He's determined to show Yutaka that he can be mature, now. Unfortunately, part of being mature probably includes not whining about being left behind and walking the few blocks back to his house, which... is sort of unfair, really, Tommy thinks. How is he supposed to prove himself if Yutaka never wants to spend time with him?

Tommy hefts his oversized bag, shrugs philosophically, and starts to walk toward the doors leading out of the school. Almost everyone has left by now; his talk with Yutaka has made him late. He could get in trouble with a teacher if anyone finds him  _too_ long after, so he should probably get going...

“Hey, Himi!”

Tommy pauses, glancing behind him. Sando Kosheo and Oyama Takechi stride up behind Tommy, and he frowns, pressing himself against the wall.

“What do  _you_ want?”

“You're brother left you behind, Tommy?” asks Kosheo.

Tommy clenches his fists.

Kosheo has never been fond of Tommy. Looking back after the digital world, Tommy thinks he might have motivated a bit of it with his own arrogance... but that, he knows, is no excuse to go around taunting or shoving people. As far as he can tell, all the broad-armed Takechi does is tag along with Kosheo.

“If you don't actually have anything to say, I'm leaving.”

And he makes to do it, too, shouldering his bag again and turning to go. But Kosheo dodges in front of him, and stops Tommy with a hand to his forearm.

“Oh,” Kosheo says. “I don't think there's any rush.”

Roughly, Takechi starts yanking Tommy's pack away, and that's when he knows there's going to be real trouble.

“Get away from me! Get – “

Tommy has absolutely no compunctions about screaming and wailing for help. Kosheo, apparently not surprised, slaps a hand over his mouth as Takechi starts dragging the smaller boy backwards.

Tommy flails and writhes uselessly, and after a moment manages to bite down on Kosheo's hand.

_“Ow!”_

“I'm not afraid of you!”

“Good for you,” Kosheo mocks, and, sticking his sleeve over his hand, slaps his palm over Tommy's mouth again.

With much awkward yanking, shoving, pulling, and dragging, they apparently get Tommy where they want him: in front of a pair of double-sided steel doors by the kitchen. Finally Takechi, panting and out of breath, circles one arm around Tommy's neck and squeezes hard as Kosheo struggles to open it. Tommy wheezes, fighting just to draw in enough air to breathe, much less yell. Finally, when he thinks he can no longer stand it, Kosheo must succeed, because Takechi shoves him stumbling through the doors.

He's in a storage room.

A  _freezer_ room.

Coughing from his near-strangulation, Tommy stumbles and turns back. “Are you stupid!” he cries. “You can't just leave me here!”

“Yes we can,” says Kosheo cheerfully, not getting his point at all. “The teachers left early for a conference; they might not find you until  _tomorrow._ Have fun, Tommy!”

Tommy lunges for the door, crying, but it slams in his face, leaving him lost in darkness.

He pulls, and pulls, but the doors are locked tightly shut. Tommy can hear footsteps running away outside the doors. Then, for a long time, there is only silence and the sound of his own hoarse breathing.

Tommy feels stunned. Don't those idiots realize he could  _die_ here? Probably not – it's just a prank to them, a stupid prank, and they don't care at  _all._ His life is just a prank, and no one will ever find him...

Tommy sinks to his knees, feeling the slide of ice and condensation under his skin – today was an awful day to wear shorts – and he begins to take short, gulping breaths of air.  _I'm a legendary warrior. A legendary warrior. No stupid bully is going to make me cry. I defeated Lucemon, he's nothing! He's – He's -_

Tommy starts to cry.

No one can see him, at least; he takes solace in that, and cries with abandon. The tears freeze on his cheeks. Perhaps they will find him like this, an icy corpse with salty eyes, and the idea just terrifies him more. It takes awhile for the fear to pass from him enough for another thought to intrude, and then he thinks -

_I'm an idiot._

Tommy starts to frantically rifle through his pockets. And then, after a heart-stopping moment, he sighs in complete relief.

His green and blue phone lays in his hand.  _Full service, too..._

“Come on, pick up, pick up,” Tommy begs, dialing.

There's a small wait. Tommy's heart pounds in his chest. He feels a little dizzy. “Pick up, please...”

There's a click. “Hello? Tommy?”

“Yutaka! Yutaka, please, come back to the school!”

“Tommy? Tommy, I told you to go home - “

“Yutaka, I can't – s-some...” Tommy feels a traitorous sob crawling up his throat, and forces it down, so there's only a minor hitch in his voice, “some b-bullies came by and shoved me into the freezer at school – I can't get out, and it's...”

Tommy pauses.

The fear leaves him, suddenly, in one swoop.

“...cold?” he murmurs, puzzled.

“The  _freezer?_ What? Tommy, are you serious?” Any irritation has faded to alarm.

“Yes, I'm serious! Please, Yutaka!”

“I'm coming, I – I'll be there in a few minutes, hang on, okay? Will you be alright if I turn the phone off to - ?”

“Yes, I – yes, I'll be fine...”

“Okay. Okay. I'll be right there. It's going to be fine, Tommy, hang on.” With a  _click,_ the line dies.

Slowly, Tommy lowers his phone.

“Cold,” he repeats.

But it isn't.

Cold, that is.

With wonder, Tommy reaches down and traces the ice against the floor. It feels smooth and sleek against his fingers, and perfectly pleasant to the touch.

_Maybe I have hypothermia already,_ Tommy thinks nervously.  _People feel warm right before they die of the cold, don't they?_

But he knows, deep down, that this isn't  _that._ He isn't cold, not at all. He's perfectly, perfectly comfortable. More comfortable, maybe, than he has been in months...

Slowly, Tommy lays back, lying spread-eagled against the icy floor.

Huh.

Tommy reaches out blindly with one hand, scraping his nails against the ice. Chips shatter under his nails.  _I'm making snow,_ he thinks. There should be more snow in Japan, really.

He is not crying anymore.

It's almost startling when someone bangs loudly on the steel doors, and he hears the familiar voice of his brother call, “Just a moment, Tommy!” in a way that is frantic but meant to be reassuring. Tommy sits up, blinking a little, and looks at the doors as they open.

“Tommy!”

Yutaka falls beside Tommy, hugging him tightly. “You're freezing!” is the very first thing he says. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” He's checking Tommy almost frantically, fingers fluttering over the younger child's hair, his shoulders, a touch of guilt in his eyes.

_He feels bad... it's not your fault, Yutaka.._

“I'm fine, Yutaka,” Tommy promises. “Really.”

“Are you sure - “

_“Really.”_

And this is the truth, too. He's fine.

But he thinks of ice under his skin, and the touch of snow in his fingers, and decides,  _it might be time to talk to the others, though..._

* * *

 

Kinmochi approaches one day, while he is sitting and doodling in a notebook. Kinmochi peers over, hesitantly. “I don't recognize that kanji.”

“It's my name.”

 _Koji, Koji, Koji,_ all over the page. Tiny and large. Fat and small. Sprawling and tight, graceful, illegible.

Kinmochi frowns.

Looks at him.

“No, it isn't.

And the boy pauses in his scribbling, looks down at the page, and then looks back at Kinmochi.

His shoulders start to shake.

“N-no, no,” he says, smiling. Kinmochi steps back from his once-maybe friend. “No.” The boy is laughing a little. It is not an amused laugh. “No, it isn't.”

* * *

 

At the home of his father again, the boy does slow katas in his room, expelling the half-hysterical breaths from his body. His heart, his mind, are numb. There is something important about today's encounter – like so many things, he does not want to think about it. Forward. He must move forward, as always. 'Forward' is all he has left, now.

The child's thoughts are interrupted by a knock on his door.

Sighing, the child sets down his bamboo practice katana, moves to the door, and opens it. “What?”

Emi sounds uncertain. “Koji,” she says. “There's... a boy here to see you.”

He blinks.

He stands and brushes past his stepmother, stepping into the hallway.

_No one_ comes to visit him. Not anymore. A boy... who would...

When he swings open the door, he feels a strange dissonance. A tearing. Like a dead shade from a past life has returned, unwelcome, to haunt his door.

“Koji,” says Kanbara Takuya. “We need to talk.”

* * *

 

Cloistered inside the boy's room, with Emi unsuccessfully hiding her curiosity outside, Takuya doesn't even pretend to hide his unease. The characteristic slouch of his posture can't hide a tension that only accompanies serious perturbation. Takuya leans against the wall, crossing his arms as he studies his friend. One brow deepens in concern.

“Jeez, Koji. Have you looked at yourself, lately?”

Ignoring this, the boy asks, “What do you want, Takuya?”

Takuya looks at him for a moment more. “Something's happening,” he says finally. “Zoe, J.P., Tommy – they're all worried. We're meeting in a week to talk. You should be there.”

“I'm not - “

“ _Koji,_ you can't just hide yourself away like this!”

“Says who?!”

\- Huh.

Takuya looks some strange mix of stricken and triumphant. Bolstering himself, he takes a step forward, ready to press his advantage.  Koji can't let that happen.

“You missed it that much, did you?”

“What?”

Takuya looks confused for a moment. Then his expression clears a little. “This isn't about  _missing_ the digital world, Koji, it's about - “

“That's not what I meant. You just can't stand not having people to order around, can you?”

Takuya's jaw drops.

“That's  _always_ been what this is about! Don't fool yourself, Takuya – you're not the leader anymore. You're not the hero. Here, you're just a normal kid, like everyone else, with  _no friends,_ and you can't  _stand it,_ can you?”

“Oh yeah? Because it sounds more like you're describing yourself than me, Koji!”

“Why did you even come here?”

“Because I'm your friend!”

“If you were my friend, you wouldn't have - !”

_Wouldn't have let me walk back, alone, with my brother's death on my hands – left me – betrayed me – forgotten me –_ he's crumbling, and the words close in his throat.

“Wouldn't have  _what,_ Koji?”

“ _Get out!”_ Koji demands, because it hurts, it hurts,  _Koji, Koji, and not -_ “Get out, get out,  _never come back!”_

He lunges forward, hears the note of hysteria in his own voice. Takuya blanches, eyes widening in shock, and stumbles away. As though he doesn't know what else to do, Takuya puts a hand on the door, half-opening it.

Then he hesitates – but it is too late.

“I think you should  _leave,”_ Minamoto Emi says emphatically, shouldering through the half-open door and putting a hand on Takuya's shoulder. He jumps in surprise, and her stepson watches, shuddering with emotion, as his friend looks to him bleakly for some sign that everything is alright.

“...You know how to find me,” comes the soft sigh. Then, despondently, Takuya has no choice but to leave.

Emi knows her stepson; she appraises him, hesitates, and then shuts the door quietly, leaving him to his privacy.

The boy takes a few breaths to calm himself. For some reason, he finds he's trembling a little. Hearing the distant sound of a slamming door, he moves to watch Takuya leave from the window.

Takuya, walking away, pauses down the street and stares back at the house for a long time. His face shows conflicting emotions, which the teen can't read. Then, squaring his shoulders, Takuya keeps walking and disappears, the uncertain form of his silhouette growing fainter until finally fading away into the ether.

* * *

 

 _We need to talk to your parents,_ they tell him. _About your conduct._

Which is a problem, because part of the deal with the boy's stand-in 'parents' is, no phone numbers. He needs to find them himself, though he has a good idea of where to start.

But walking around Ueno at night is not a comforting task on a good day, and today even less so. The boy is usually focused, alert. Today he walks on air. He looks at the world through duel eyes, and thinks, _something is broken._

 _Something has_ been _broken._

He wonders, dizzily, naively: ... _Who broke it?_

When the men approach him, he should almost expect it. He doesn't. He doesn't even see them, though the pair are hardly subtle.

“Hey, kid. Need some help?”

They stink like alcohol and smoke and sweat, like cheap fabric and sugary things and nothing, nothing good. The teen stumbles away, looking around on reflex – he is alone. He can take two half-drunks, he thinks – though the glint of their eyes is sober enough – but unease makes his heart race.

If he vanishes, two houses will lose their sons tonight.

The fatter man turns to move closer on one side; his tall companion moves around the other, both smiling unpleasantly at him. He tenses. He can fight, surely. He can fight. He _might_ not win, but he can try, and if they think he'll be easy, they have something else coming.

He will _always_ fight.

Suddenly, both men freeze.

…He knows this feeling.

But he doesn't have his D-Tector. It should be impossible to spirit evolve, much less to do... whatever this is.

He knows the sensation of being a digimon well enough that when the sliding muscle and fur settles into place over his bones, it feels not only comfortable but welcome. This form is smaller than any of his others – maybe even a little smaller than his human self. He is humanoid, but has clearly stuck with the wolfish theme, judging by the five long, grasping claws that form in place of fingers. He has never understood how pants or buckles are part of a digimon's body, but these have come with the change, too. And his new, thin fur, ragged and rough to the touch, is almost disconcerting to the eye. Everything about him – from tapered claw to glove to boot-buckle, and even his fur and skin – is a strange, chromatic white, gray or black. He could be in an old black and white picture, and look no different.

A whisper floats through his mind, and he flexes a claw. * _Strabimon..._

Grinning truly now, Strabimon twists to the fat man, rearing back one long leg. _“Light leg!”_

The bright glow that blinds the street almost makes the man's scream of fear inconsequential. When the light fades, the man is crumpled against a far building, holding his ribs. Blood oozes from his bent arm.

And Strabimon was _holding back._

The digimon turns, but the tall man is nowhere to be seen. And so, turning, the creature lopes away.

He will have to find his stand-in parents another day: for the first time in months, things have just gotten _interesting._

* * *

 

_**Interlude of Fire** _

* * *

 

“Shouldn't we have Koji here?” Zoe asks. “It feels weird to talk about this without him.”

“He had his reasons,” Takuya says curtly. “If we discuss anything important, I'll tell him, but for now let's leave him be, okay?”

Exchanging glances, there are a few reluctant nods. “Okay,” Takuya says. “The thing is – Zoe, you said you think the wind pushed you. J.P., you're saying you  _might_ have powered up some electronics... or the power could just have turned on again. And, Tommy, you didn't feel the cold... but how do you know it wasn't just the adrenaline?”

“Hey, are you calling us liars?” J.P. demands.

“No. And I'm not  _saying_ that you guys are wrong. I'm just trying to say, we need to consider the possibility that we're possibly overreacting here. We don't exactly have a lot to go on.”

“My, my, Takuya the skeptic,” Zoe hums.

“Look, we think our spirits are affecting us somehow, right? Or maybe they've changed us permanently, or – or  _something.”_ No one says anything. “That  _is_ what we're all getting at, right?”

Tommy breaks in. “But, how do we test it for sure? It's not like we have any digimon to ask anymore, and our D-tectors are gone, too...” he's holding his cellphone, glaring at it reproachfully.

“Well, I've thought of a sure-fire test,” Takuya promises. Everyone looks intrigued.

“Yeah?” J.P asks. “What's that?”

Takuya reaches into his pocket, then brings out a lighter. He flicks it a few times until a bright flame comes forth.

“What, you're going to test your heat-resistance? How's that any better than what Tommy - “

Grinning, Takuya unceremoniously sticks his hand onto the fire.

“Takuya!” Zoe yelps. J.P. flinches, and Tommy makes a lunge for him, shouting, “are you crazy - - ?”

Takuya pulls away, laughing a little, hand still held tightly over the small flame. He ignores Zoe's demands to “Stop it, stop it!” and waits a few agonizing seconds before taking his hand away and showing it to the others.

His hand is perfectly whole.

“Felt completely cool,” he says. Despite the smile, there's a certain grimness to his eyes. “So – are we considering this a problem, yet?”

 


	2. Transitions

Strabimon is the rookie of light, but a creature of the night. He considers this natural contradiction as he slinks through the shadows of Ueno, lost where he was once sure. Once, he was searching for something. He had a purpose. Now he revels in the rustling sounds of shadow, the whispers on the breeze that tickle his sensitive ears – the quiet sounds that make him want to turn, and run, and _hunt._

Strabimon is a predator. A wolf, with fangs and claws and shining eyes that glow red under the glint of stars. But this form walks two-legged, trapped in the human raiment of clothing, irrevocably branded by civilization.

Strabimon does not know what he is.

Yet Strabimon is thinking clearly, as the-boy-he-was has not been able to reason for months. His thoughts are sharp and quick, as quick as his own swift feet that run beneath the moon. He could almost reach out, feel, and order his own mind with a touch. He does not want to lose this feeling. He does not want to change back, to become numb again.

Strabimon is a child.

Eventually, the thrill wears away. Weariness takes hold. The digimon-boy wonders what he is doing. He wonders if he will be late in getting home; something in him remembers the concept _family,_ and the soft frame of his mother's face, the pinched worry of her eyes. Guilt touches his chest.

A gentle glow sweeps through the street, and when it fades, Strabimon is gone. The child remains.

Faded, desolate, he stands dazedly in the street and peers around as though the rising sun might answer his questions. Then, with a shake, he turns on heel, picks a direction, and starts to move.

People are starting to stir in Ueno, and for a young student of twelve this is an odd place to be walking alone. He attracts strange looks. But two men in particular double-take upon seeing him, and the boy thinks, _not again,_ as they approach. He walks faster, and pretends not to notice.

It does little good.

“Hey,” one calls, in a surprisingly hoarse voice. “What are you doing here so early?”

“None of your business,” answers the child. He starts to turn away.

The taller of the two men grabs his shoulder, restraining him. “What's wrong with you?” he demands, looking – not angry, but perplexed, and that's when the boy knows he has made a mistake.

The shorter man peers at the teen with disconcertingly gray eyes; the boy steps back. “Mashiro,” he addresses his companion. “Look at him – he doesn't know us.”

Mashiro frowns. The subject of their attention stands, stony-faced, and tries to look unconcerned. This might have been a poor choice, because Mashiro exclaims, “You're right!”

The shorter man rubs his jaw, assessing the teen. “What? Do you not recognize us, Koichi? It has not been _that_ long.”

The teen wracks his brain, wondering how a kindly adolescent might meet, and continue to associate with, two scruffy men on the streets of Ueno.

“Longer than usual, though,” adds Mashiro, and steps forward.

“Look, I – I told you, it's none of your business.” The child turns.

“Hey!” Mashiro sounds angry now. “Get back here - !”

A hand grabs the child's shoulder, and spins him around roughly. It takes the teen a long moment to register that the man's bearing is not one of menace, but concern.

It takes _too_ long for Mashiro.

It's more of a reflex than anything, the boy will later think, how a bastardized simulacrum of his hand sweeps forth and, in one smooth forward thrust, ploughs into the soft tissue of Mashiro's gut.

There is something delicate and almost beautiful in the way Mashiro's eyes widen, the dawn light catching his eye and flashing soft orange colors just before they flutter closed. He falls back in an arc, twitching and jerking every way, the progression slow and aching as his body strains to meet both the pull of gravity and to fall away from the grasping limb inserted in its abdomen.

There is a wet, sucking sound when he falls free, then hits the pavement with an anticlimactic _thud._

For a moment that is far too long the shorter man does not seem to understand what has happened. He stares down at the red stain and what was once Mashiro, his jaw working, face waxen. Then he looks up to the creature that is again Strabimon.

He screams.

* * *

 

Pale light ghosts through the window of the Kimura residence. Kimura Sumie looks up as her son stumbles from his room, a startled expression on her face.

“Koichi! I was just leaving... I checked your room just a minute ago...”

Her son shrugs, blinking blearily at her. Mistaking his look for sleepiness, she decides he must have been washing – there are water stains around his sleeves - and stoops to kiss his cheek.

The air around them smells faintly of iron.

“Have you been mixing with paint, Koichi? You should be more careful with your clothes, my little artist!”

The child blinks, slowly, and looks down.

His hands are freshly-scrubbed, rubbed pink and raw. But on his right sleeve there's a long red swathe of red soaked into the fabric.

“That will be horrible to wash,” she says. “Be more careful, in the future, alright?”

He nods slowly.

“Good-bye!”

* * *

 

Something should have changed.

There is a hollow feeling in the boy's bones when he tries to sleep that day. Both schools are used to his frequent absences. He attends neither – not because he feels guilty or remorseful, but because, he thinks, he should _try_ to feel guilty.

It probably says something about him, after all, that he doesn't.

So he goes through the motions. He stares at a wall. He thinks about what he's done. The shocked eyes, the red wound, the dark flight after. A meaningless death. His first kill.

 _Not really,_ another voice rebels.

Ah, ah, but digimon don't count, now do they? They're reborn as digi-eggs, after all. Perhaps, though, he is desensitized, after his time in the digital world? Unable to comprehend the brutality, the finality of death? He considers this, and then realizes that this question – while intriguing – is not making him feel any guiltier. He shifts back to brooding.

Blood. Horror. Guilt. He _should_ be guilty...

_He shouldn't have surprised me._

_-_ Because, sure, that's an entirely justifiable reason for _murder._

_Maybe this is shock._

He doesn't feel very shocked, though. He feels – fine.

Better than fine.

...Good, actually.

Death. Murder. Claws swiping out, blood, fangs tearing soft, rich flesh – no, that never happened, and digimon don't do that. He _could_ have, but...

...Oh.

Oh. Hm.

 _Well, there's the horror,_ he thinks. And is almost grateful.

* * *

 

“Koichi?”

Mr. Ueshima stares down his thin nose at the boy, holding a dog-eared book before him with the authority of a man declaring judgment.

“Koichi, why don't you read this poem?”

Slowly, the boy stands.

It feels as though the entire class is staring... but, of course, they probably are. Listening. Waiting. But it seems like something more. He looks up, meets a pair of appraising brown eyes, and quickly turns his face back down to the book.

He begins to read.

_“He who was living is now dead._

_We who are living are now dying_

_With a little patience...”_

* * *

 

“Koichi, you're not yourself lately,” says Kinmochi to the boy.

* * *

 

There is one thing he has not anticipated about his newly (and unavoidably) taciturn behavior, and this is the fact that while Mother really has too much stress to do much much more than worry over his absences, the Minamotos have other plans.

“A vacation,” he repeats flatly. Like saying it again will make the word any more palatable. Or, perhaps, will make this hypothetical scenario disappear forever.

“Koji,” Emi begins, “We're concerned that - “

“We're hoping that some time as a family can help you get used to Emi,” says Juro bluntly, and the woman in question cringes, hugging her chest. His son tries not to sigh. Really, he doesn't know how this blunt man expects him to be amiable with methods like that. But, miraculously, Juro softens. “I know you miss your mother,” he adds, not unkindly. “But it's been so long, Koji. You need to learn to let the past go.”

“So your solution is to take more choices away from me.”

“Koji!”

“I'll be back later.”

* * *

 

Unfortunately, looming over every other issue is still the problem that the teen never managed to resolve on his trip to Ueno. He still needs to find his two agreed-upon stand-ins to speak with his teachers at school. This is something easier said than done – as he now well knows.

He attracts odd looks on the streets, as always, but moves with the assurance of one who knows his way. Today, this assurance is unfeigned, if tainted.

The child can certainly take care of himself, after all, but the possible price -

 _That won't happen again,_ he thinks.

Their names are Seinosuke and Yoko. A few other workers eye the group dubiously as these two walk off with a twelve year old boy between them, but say nothing after a few exchanged glances and shrugged shoulders. He wonders if this inaction stems from a collective conclusion that his escorts have innocuous intentions, or if no one actually cares enough to intervene.

“We can't promise this will work,” says Seinosuke.

Yoko nods. “We can only act the part,” she says. “Whether or not your teachers believe us... that's up to them, and you. And if it _doesn't_ go right...”

“I won't blame you,” is the immediate assurance. And, as their temporary employer suspects he knows the real concern: “You'll be paid either way.”

“Alright, then.”

All in all, though, he thinks it will work. He has chosen well. Yoko is slender and dark-haired. Her arms, admittedly, are scarred with old track-marks... but only higher up. And Seinosuke's dark, large eyes and compact shoulders aren't too far different from his own. They could fit, he thinks, with a little cleaning up. They discuss the time of the proposed meeting, and other arrangements, and finally the boy parts from the place twenty minutes later with relief.

A light headache is pulsing against his temples, though, and he skirts from the site of his earlier encounter with Mashiro with uneasy denial.

“Hey, got a light?” Someone calls.

His head is pounding.

“I _said,_ got a light?”

“Back off.”

Someone harrumphs. A sour smell like spice and sweat wafts over the air; he catches a flash of brown out of the corner of his eye, and walks quicker.

No one follows him. It would be so easy to leave, to go home and try and merge back into his repetitive, pained semblance of a life.

He looks up, and glimpses the swollen gibbous moon hovering over his position.

“No,” he decides suddenly, angrily. “I'm done running – I've been running from everything, but not from this. Never from this, do you understand? You're not taking my body from me - I'll control it, just like I controlled my beast spirit. I'm  _better_ than this!"

Ignoring the stare from a woman across the street, he breaks into a sprint, craning his head left and right for a suitably shadowed position.

_There._

Under cover, he reaches inside for the brush of something familiar – a glimpse of light amid the abyss, a spark of pulsing, sensitive thought that rears to his attention. Blue data swarms under his skin, then bursts free to wrap him in a cocoon of energy.

Strabimon braces his feet against the ground, adjusting to the sudden dysphoria of his new form. He inhales sharply, breathing in the sharp city-scents of civilization.

In the failing twilight, he does not dare walk amid the streets. Instead he turns, using his tapered claws to find flaws in the nearest building. This is scaled quickly and near-silently. Strabimon swings himself onto a roof with easy strength, then looks down into the streets.

There is something satisfying in this, freeing. With a running leap, Strabimon jumps from the top of his building with a clatter of shaking shingles, landing softly on the clay tiles of an adjoining structure.

“Hey, did you see that?” he hears a distant voice call.

“...No?”

“Nevermind...”

The digimon makes a swift, silent passage home, hidden under the stars.

* * *

 

_Interlude_

* * *

 

“These things are useless!”

J.P. tosses his phone aside in disgust. Zoe winces as his device hits the far wall with a clatter. “J.P!” She scolds. “What will you do if that breaks? These are our best chances of finding a way to contact the digital world!”

“I don't see how! We don't even have so much as a cell-phone number... I can't find the message Ophanimon sent us, can you? And there's no sign our phones were ever anything but, well, _phones...”_

The four of them are crowded in Tommy's room, at the Hidi house. His parents, Tommy has explained, are happy to give him free reign; J.P's parents would doubtlessly have _questions_ if he brought over three friends so suddenly, and Zoe is uncertain how her parents would react to her appearing with multiple, unknown boys so abruptly.

“Did I hear something break?” asks a voice.

 - They hadn't thought to include Yutaka in their considerations.

“J.P. just dropped his phone,” says Tommy quickly.

Yutaka glances suspiciously at J.P., who, grumbling, stands to retrieve it. “Right,” the older teen mutters.

“ - How long are all of you staying, again?'

“Yutaka!”

“Not too long, probably,” lies Zoe cheerfully.

With a humph, Yutaka closes the door.

“Friendly guy,” she mutters, smile dropping.

“Hey, he's just worried,” Takuya excuses. “We probably do seem a little weird, showing up like this.”

“I can take care of myself!” Tommy protests.

“Sure you can, buddy. But your brother might not know that yet.”

“Hmph.”

“Anyway. So no one's had anymore progress, yet?”

Glances are exchanged.

“I think I froze some water yesterday?” Tommy ventures uncertainly. “Maybe. It was icy a long time, anyway...”

“I've been discharging a lot of static electricity,” ventures J.P.

“I've been wearing a hundred layers and running around to try overheating... nothing so far,” Takuya says. “Except that my my mom's concerned I'm anemic or something. I don't know what else to try, I guess.”

They all look at Zoe.

“I don't really know how to tell,” she admits. “...But there _has_ been a lot of wind around my house lately, and, well, especially when I'm upset about something...”

“Good enough for me,” says J.P.

“Except we could _still_ be imagining it all,” Tommy sighs.

“Hey, no,” Takuya says. “Do I need to stick my hand in fire again? Something is happening.” He clenches a fist around his own, useless cellphone. “If we could just contact the digital world...”

“But we can't.”

“We can't, but we _can_ keep working with our abilities. Our spirits took awhile to control; this is no different, right?”

“But, Takuya, there's one thing that worries me,” Zoe offers hesitantly. “In the digital world... we only went there, and we only found the spirits because we were summoned. Because we were needed. When we left, that was supposed to be the end of it, because our job was done. So now, if something's happening again... my question is, _why?”_

There's a long pause as everyone considers this question.

“...If there's a reason, we'll know in time,” Takuya says finally. “But that just makes it all the more important for us to learn to control these powers. Alright?”

Everyone agrees.

It doesn't seem that there's anything more to say, and they all start to rise. But before anyone leaves, Zoe adds, “You know, this isn't right – Koji should be here, with us.”

“I told you,” Takuya says, “Koji doesn't want to be involved. We should respect that.”

“I don't know...”

“We're always strongest together,” Tommy says. “ _Always.”_

“Aw, it'll be fine, at least for now,” J.P. dismisses. “I mean, what kind of effects could happen to him, anyway? He's the Warrior of Light – what's he going to do, start glowing in the dark?”

* * *

 

They are sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea at night in companionable silence, when this question is asked:

“Koichi,” says Mother. “Have you been to Ueno, lately?”

The boy freezes.

He looks to mother warily, searching her face and expecting many possible things. Disappointment; triumph; anger; sorrow. He has been caught now, and she must have some reaction to dropping this news on him so unexpectedly. Then another possibility flickers through his mind; blood on pavement, the tang of iron in his nostrils...

No. She cannot know of that, surely.

His mother looks at him. But... but, there is nothing unusual about her expression, he realizes, his heart racing. Swiftly he asks, “Why?”

Mother blinks. “I was just wondering,” she says, “since you're out so often, if you've perhaps heard from Gihei or Mashiro lately?”

_“Mashiro – look at him, he doesn't know us.”_

Oh, no.

The boy pauses. He looks down to where his hand is clenched around his tea-cup. The liquid inside is shuddering from the small vibrations of shock he fails to suppress.

“...I'm afraid I haven't,” he lies, softly.

“I'll have to go sometime,” she muses, half to herself. “In the daylight, and see how they're doing. Such a shame... such a shame...”

He closes his eyes.

* * *

 

As fall shifts into winter, the journey between houses becomes more taxing. Overnight, a delicate frost starts to appear over the ground, melting, unseen, in the morning light.

It is a matter of efficiency only, Strabimon thinks, to travel in this form.

It is getting easier, now, to shift between selves. His chromatic flesh and fur easily blends into the silky darkness; even the white part of his new muzzle can absorb shadow easily, instead of reflecting light. A strange quality. But useful.

Strabimon darts to one side as laughter breaks the air. He watches with gleaming eyes from his hiding spot as a woman and her date wander by, chatting amiably, no hurry to their steps.

His ears twitch.

“...really the strangest thing,” she's saying. “Don't you think?”

“Stranger still that they didn't think so.”

“But you can get accustomed to all sorts of things, I suppose, given enough time...”

The digimon waits until they are well out of range; then he resumes his path.

Being a digimon again is glorious; being a digimon in the _human_ world, less so. Though this form is less noticeable than Lobomon... still, he would prefer the champion spirit form, undeniably.

But despite the re-emergence of this form, his D-tector is still gone. Just a plain, black and blue phone remains. And an old model, at that...

_I wonder if I can -_

\- - But, that's a ridiculous thought. The D-tector's are gone, the spirit is gone... And if it were possible to digivolve without a spirit, surely their entire quest would not have been necessary?

Strabimon shakes his head roughly. There are no enemies here; thus there is no reason for him to be concerned with strength or power.

Only a person with reason to be afraid, really, would chase after the shadows of power for no cause. And Strabimon has never been a coward.

So he pushes the thought from his mind, and moves on.

* * *

 

_Koji._

“What?”

Emi looks at her stepson. “I didn't say anything.”

“You said - “

His throat closes before the word comes out. Small, callous fingers tighten around a soapy plate. “ - nevermind.”

Emi studies him. “I feel like we talk less and less these days,” she says softly. “Koji - “

_Koji._

The plate falls to the ground with a ringing clash.

“Oh.” Emi winces, hands raising reflexively at the noise. “It's alright,” she says, as he looks down at the scattered shards of glass. She stoops, plucking large pieces delicately from the floor. “Watch your step, though – oh!”

She hisses, jerking back her finger, then glances almost disapprovingly at a digit that starts to swell with vivid red blood. A scarlet tear-drop arcs down her palm.

A sigh eases from her lips. “Can you get me a rag, Koji - “

_KOJI._

The scent of blood tickles his throat; his skin feels dry. “I have to go.”

“What?”

“I – I'm sorry.”

He misses the words she speaks to his back, bolting to the door and pushing down the reflexive surge of adrenaline that could so easily become something else. His vision blurs, melting into a wash of blue. For a blink, he sees a scattering of something impossible – zeros and ones and streams of data-strings he can't comprehend, arching inexorably through the sky and down electricity cables between houses. A girl across the street is holding a phone, and it flares like lightning in his eyes.

Then everything is normal again, and flat. He takes a deep breath. The smell of blood lingers, a ghost-scent, and he focuses on what is unquestionably real. The chill in his fingers, the perpetual oily scent of industrialization, and...

_“Koji.”_

His breath catches.

“I heard that,” he says.

He means to yell it, to force a confrontation. The words come out as a whisper instead.

_“Koji.”_

He is sure of the voice now, and flinches, looking around wildly. No one is around.

But this voice does not exist, except in his dreams, except in his memories and also, when he talks shy and quiet to fool his mother, in the echo of his own voice...

But it can't be real.

When he runs, he tells himself he is not following the faint memory of that sound humming through his ears. When he grows small and lean and not-quite-human, he tells himself that it is only logical to take the form of Strabimon. He forgot his coat, after all, and it is cold outside in the winter of Japan.

But when he comes to his senses and looks about to find himself standing at the edge of a heavily fenced cemetery, his walk slows. Somehow, he is not surprised.

Strabimon has driven by Aoyama cemetery in the past, but his memories of it are primarily from the summer. Now, in the crisp cold of early winter, the cherry trees have shed their pink blossoms and look like skeletal portends of doom. Their arms drape over the marbled paths and reach down as he slinks through the colossal encampment, head waving from side to side to look for grieving civilians who might notice his trespassing. The place seems eerily empty.

This, too, occurs to him as significant.

_!!!_

Strabimon snaps his head around. But though he strains his tapered ears, he doubts his own perceptions. The garbled hiss on the wind could have been a word, or...

...He walks on anyway.

Eventually, after much wandering, he comes across a blank stone monument that is still waiting for inscription. It has not yet been defaced with the name of the dead. For some reason, this strikes Strabimon as an especially awful sight – worse even than the countless stones of the already-dead, hiding their chambers of ashen remains underneath.

This stone is _waiting_ for someone to die.

 _Perhaps for me,_ Strabimon thinks.

 _“Not for you,”_ a voice disagrees. _“Not yet.”_

Strabimon jerks back, snarling. But when nothing else is heard, a slow, almost terrified hope works itself from his chest. The wolf-creature glances around uneasily. “...Koichi,” he whispers, almost inaudibly.

No reply.

“ _Please._ Please, Kouchi...”

But the wind rustles, and the grave stands blank and immovable in the face of his loss.

* * *

 

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Minamoto.”

“The pleasure was mine. And I'm glad we could finally clear this up, in person. I'm sorry for any inconvenience we've caused - “

“Not at all,” the headmaster assures. Then he says, “Koji is an excellent student,” which is a blatant lie, and, “his circumstances are, of course, unfortunate, but our faculty will do what we can to make his experience as easy as possible.”

“Thank you,” says Yoko. “It means so much to us, to hear you say that.”

Seinosuke's hand is a hard weight on Koji's shoulder.

The small threesome could part, Koji supposes, as soon as they leave sight of the school, and the newly-sympathetic gaze of the teaching staff. But they don't. Some impulse makes Koji accompany his hired help all the way back to Ueno.

Seinosuke lights up a cigarette as their train approaches Ueno, attracting dirty looks from other riders. Yoko declines the offer of a smoke. So does Koji.

When they reach Ueno, and then the vague vicinity of Seinosuke and Yoko's usual 'work' area, Koji is struck by the silliness of accompanying them anyway. They both seem to notice the precise moment this realization strikes him, looking half-amused as they accept his sudden, stiff attempt to pay them.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, thrusting forth the money.

“Sure,” says Seinosuke, not unkindly. “Glad to do it... A nice change of pace, anyway.”

“Sure, and we don't have to... – I mean.” Yoko glances at their twelve-year-old 'employer'. “...Everyone can use some diversity in their lives, right?” she says finally.

The boy arches a brow, somewhat exasperated. He's not _oblivious._ “Right.”

“But listen, kid,” Seinosuke says, “You might want to be careful. You don't live in Ueno, right?”

“No...”

“Well, be grateful for that... There's been talk of some real freak jumping around rooftops, or something, wearing _wolf-skin_ of all things. Word has it he murdered someone. One person, mind, but the guy was seen just recently again. Watch yourself.”

“...”

“Kid?”

“ - I - “

“You okay, kid?”

Yoko and Seinosuke stop and look at him. His breath is hard and distant in his ears; he musters a wan smile.

“I'm fine,” he says, and expels the breath forcibly. His skin is held together by strands of glass, pulled thin and brittle under the sun. “Go on, then.” He stops where they're walking. “And thanks again.”

“Sure...”

Ignoring their half-concerned gazes, he turns and stumbles away. The mutter of, “should we let him go alone?” is completely waved off.

Strabimon is moving through Ueno moments later. _“Some real freak,”_ they'd said.

_He_ _**murdered** _ _ someone. _

_ “Mashiro...” _

“Did you see that?”

Strabimon melts into the night like smoke against water. He closes his eyes, tilting back his head so blood rushes down his nostrils and his throat is bared straight and narrow. His breath thins out – they cannot hear him – cannot see -

“Look!”

His eyes open.

Two humans stand in front of him, not four meters away. Their mouths are hanging open gormlessly. One, a girl, is pointing at him; the young man has dropped his pack and seems briefly stunned. Horrible instincts, both. It is dumb luck, nothing more, that they even managed to stumble over him. Unwillingly, a snarl rises to his chest.

The girl screams.

This, in itself, would perhaps mean little; people ignore screams all the time. But her companion makes it worse. He regains his voice, and yells, “Wolf!  _ Wolf!” _

And this, people notice.

As though just to prove to Strabimon how appallingly few self-preservation instincts these creatures still possess, the man draws himself up –  _ glances at the girl,  _ the moron – then, grabbing his bag, makes a run for Strabimon.

The digimon doesn't bother dodging; he's too incredulously shocked by the temerity of this act to even try. Instead he watches the swing of the bag arch up above his head. Then, in one disdainful motion, he reaches up to swipe it away. A few notebooks and a pencil case rattle out, along with other miscellaneous items. Some hit the idiot stranger in his face.

The man looks dumbfounded, staring down at his torn bag for a broken moment. He looks back up to Strabimon.

It would be so easy -

_ “Mashiro!” _

 - But Strabimon, with a snarl, turns tail instead.

He runs.

Footsteps follow: First one pair. Two. Three. It is relatively early, still, and the man's shout has attracted attention. Strabimon drops to all fours, not quite for speed but by instinct. It seems to neither help nor hinder his gait, so he keeps moving.

He can outcome the eight or nine panting people easily, really. They're shouting and loud and seem very confused behind him. Strabimon rounds a corner, though, and – well, a thirteen-foot tall, smooth cement wall is annoying, even for a digimon.

But not really an impediment.

The instinct is still shuddering under his blood. Strabimon lets it come forth, lets his natural understanding of survival take over. He could probably find a way to escape even this, but – there is a quicker, easier way.

_“Darkness Hand!”_

A shadow of Strabimon's hand stretches forth, layering over the physical hand in a way the hybrid doesn't even think to question. This shadow tears through the offending wall with ease, scattering stone with a shattering roar. Strabimon makes his escape, darting swiftly and silently through the streets as the noise of his pursuers grows faint behind him.

His heart is pounding.

The shadowed technique is too familiar, and too easy to mistake as a fluke. It brings back memories he has tried hard to suppress – blood splattered on pavement, dark eyes glaring, the reproachful cry: _“Mashiro - !”_

And yet the easy rhythm and strength of this, of being half-digimon, is something he has missed. The digimon shakily focuses on the route to the Kimura home, trying in vain to focus on nothing else. It is impossible not to wonder, though... if this is some rookie form of Lobomon, the Warrior of Light... why does he even _have_ an attack called 'darkness hand'?

* * *

 

“I'm sorry I'm not here more, Koichi,” Kimura Sumie sighs through the dark air of the house. “My job...”

“This isn't good for you,” says the boy sadly. “You're a nurse's assistant. You should be helping people; who will help you?”

Sumie smiles a little, though. “I help plenty of people, I like to think,” she says. “Just today I helped deliver a baby, Koichi... Oh, you should have seen him. He was the most beautiful thing.”

* * *

 

In Hiroo, his teachers barely bother to make him do work, these days. They seem vaguely surprised when he shows up to class at all – some of his classmates, inevitably, will ask if he is new –but then they remember the quiet, sickly student who talks to no one, and leave him alone. He is a part-time, silent fixture wedged in the back corner of every class, waiting in silent purgatory until the bell rings and the exhausting task of _balancing_ is necessary again.

Today, though, that task may already be lost, because he has made a fatal error.

“What are you drawing?” A voice asks.

The teen blinks, jolting out of his thoughts. The teacher is circulating around the class, looking bored and answering a few questions as students bend over their assignments.

Next to him, a girl with soft brown eyes and wide-set teeth blinks at him earnestly. She seems honestly curious, and adds, in another hissing whisper, “I've never seen you drawing before...”

“I don't,” he says, and abruptly crumples the paper – heedless of the actual assignment he should be doing, because it's not like he ever gets schoolwork done _anyway._

The girl looks hurt. “You don't have to be like that...”

His shoulders twitch. He bends over the paper. “I don't draw,” he repeats.

The girl harrumphs. She turns back to her own work.

But, under her breath, he hears her mutter, “I was just going to say, it looked good...”

* * *

 

He goes to the Aoyama cemetery when he can, sitting under the silent trees. At night, when it is inevitably impossible to sleep, he slips out as Strabimon and goes back, flitting through the somehow much more alive trees and avoiding the nocturnal caretakers of the dead.

Always, he tilts his head and thinks he can just hear a whisper: _“Koji. Koji. Koji.”_

One day while he is sitting by the blank monument in human form a girl his own age floats by on quiet feet. She holds a bouquet of out-of-season flowers, already wilting slightly in the cold, and a tiny card.

“For my grandfather,” she says, seeing him looking.

He hadn't really been curious.

She must be foreign, or at least partially so. Her hair is strangely light, a fluffy white-blonde that catches the winter sunlight. And blue eyes, much less this sort of piercing pale blue, are rarely seen in Japan. A small, jagged scar discolors the skin beneath her right eye.

“My name is Kura,” she says abruptly. “You can call me that.”

He just says, “Do you come here often, Kura?”

“Yes.” She does not seem to find this an odd question. “My grandfather, Ichisada Seiryo, is buried here.”

He nods. And, pleasantries done, turns away.

But Kura is not finished with him. “And do _you_ come here often, Koji?”

“That seems like a personal question.”

She doesn't say that he's a hypocrite... though she could. Instead, she smiles – slightly, condescendingly – and sits beside him, laying the flowers across her lap.

“Why don't you tell me about it,” she says.

“I'm not mourning anyone.”

“Then you're a little strange, to be sitting in a cemetery.”

“I'm fine.”

“Is that what you tell people?”

He stands. “I don't need to listen to - “

“Of course you don't.” The girl is still smiling. “Alright, then. Why don't I tell you something else, instead?”

“Like what?”

“A story,” says Kura.

* * *

 

_Interlude - Discovery_

* * *

 

“Stay _out,_ Shinya, I mean it this time!”

“Fiiiine... but really, what are you _doing?”_

“Shinya!”

Kinbara Shinya skips out of the room, but as he goes yells over his shoulder, “If you burn down the house, I'm telling Mom it was all your fault!”

With relief, Takuya closes the door after his brother.

“ _Finally...”_

He turns around.

There are scorch marks all around his room. A long streak of ash over the floor bears reproachful testimony to his first experiment gone wrong, and unfortunately this result is not much of an outlier.

Takuya twists a hand through his hair, sighing and flopping onto his chair. He studies the marks of his failure.

In the digital world, it was always so much easier to tap into the power of the spirits. Like breathing or moving an arm. The knowledge was simply  _ there.  _ But the spirits are gone now, returned to their rightful places, and he is bereft.

Supposedly.

Yet the flames he has been using have burnt only the floor, and not Takuya's skin. Something, then, remains. But is this the only remnant of his power, after all? Fire-immunity? It is, he concedes, a not-insignificant gift... but there's something  _ more,  _ lying untapped under his skin. He  _ knows  _ it. It's there, waiting, daring him to reach out and grasp it.

Takuya has never been one to turn down a dare.

“Easy,” he says aloud. “Natural – that's what it was always like. And I don't have to think, to make myself resist fire, either.”

On the wall, his clock ticks steadily. It feels, strangely, like encouragement.

“Alright,” he says, mostly to himself. “Alright.”

A pause.

Slowly, Takuya takes his phone out of his pocket.

“Is  _ that  _ what we've been missing?” He asks it. “It can't be, can it?”

But the phone remains dead and cold in his grip.

Takuya exhales slowly. He focuses on the heat that flows through his body – the natural fire every body holds. Then, with a competency born of long practice, he reaches inward for the place that holds the spirits – the capacity for digivolution.

Something  _ clicks. _

The blue cocoon of evolution feels like an old friend, and one he never expected to see again. When it fades, Flamemon gasps and stares down at his own palms – familiar, undeniably, but impossible. A half-forgotten dream.

He looks down, again, just to be sure.

The phone remains.

(And when he calls the others, later, this is what he says:

“We can do it. We can spirit-evolve, at least to rookie, and... and, I think, if we really try, we might even be able to go farther...”)

* * *

 

“A long time ago,” Kura tells him, “A woodsman named Visu was visited by an old priest.”

“I know this story,” he cuts in. “Everyone does.”

“You don't know  _ my  _ version.” Kura says, finally showing a hint of impatience. “Shush, and listen.”

He does.

“The priest said that he did not pray,” Kura continues. “But Visu, who had a wife and two sons, told the man, 'If you had a family to keep, you would not have time to pray, either'. Well, this made the priest angry, and he gave so many descriptions of the possibilities of being reborn as a toad or an insect or other terrible things that Visu finally promised he would pray.

“So Visu did pray. He did nothing but pray, in fact.”

“So his crops all died,” says the boy. “And his family, too, while he prayed for years and years.”

Kura looks at him. “Visu  _ prayed,”  _ she explains. “And while he prayed, his crops died; his family died; the world crumbled into ash and dust, for he prayed for a hundred years, two hundred, three hundred, four, and on and on, and as he prayed the power of his prayer alone sustained him.”

He frowns. That is not how the story goes.

“And so he was happy, and immortal through his prayer,” Kura finishes. She looks down, and traces the dead flowers in her lap. “If only,” she adds softly, “the ones we love had been so wise as Visu...”

* * *

 

Kinmochi doesn't even try talking to him anymore. Not really. Oh, the other teen is certainly worried. He sneaks glances every now and again, and watches the boy too much for it to be normal. The two must have been close, long ago. But no more.

It occurs to him that something could still be salvaged... but, why would he even try? And the days pass so swiftly, now, that it seems like mere minutes between the time he is entering the classroom and leaving it...

* * *

 

When he visits Aoyama cemetery during the day, Kura is often there now. Perhaps she has memorized his schedule, he thinks, but the thought is somehow not bothersome. He takes up his position in front of the blank gravestone.

“Don't you have anything better to do?” He feels obligated to ask.

Kura smiles at him, brushing aside a lock of her pale hair. Her gaudy gold wrist-armlets jangle. “Don't you?”

He says nothing. He has brought a notebook today, one of the sketchpads from the Kimura place. Her eyes wander to it. “What's that?”

“Nothing important.”

“Can I see, then, if it's not important?”

“No.”

She takes it, anyway. He watches. It would be too much effort to take it back.

The ruffle of paper is loud in the chill air. Kura hums over the pictures. “Here,” she says. “This one – you should leave this, for whoever you're visiting. It's the best picture of the lot. You were thinking of Him, weren't you?”

“Says who?” He takes back the sketchpad, and glances down. Then stiffens.

A crude, almost abstract sketch of the Spirit of Darkness graces the page. With one quick flip of his wrist, he closes the book. “Maybe later.”

“It's His, though,” she says. “Or was.”

“Was?”

“Well, nothing really belongs to the dead,” Kura clarifies. “Memories, and our best wishes, yes. But everything else – why should we deprive the living, for those who cannot even appreciate what they have?”

* * *

 

As the time for the Minamoto 'vacation' approaches, he wonders how to explain any time away to Kimura Sumie. He toys idly with the idea that she might not notice an extended absence, but this is perhaps being too optimistic, even given the woman's late hours.

“Mother,” he finally approaches, watching Sumie blow the cold from her fingers and shiver over her soup late one night at the Kimura house. “There's going to be a school trip soon.”

Sumie goes strangely still. She looks down at her soup. “I'm sorry, Koichi,” she says softly, and sounds it. “I'm not sure we can afford to send you anywhere.”

His throat tightens. “It doesn't cost anything. The school says we've been sponsored by an alumni. Can I go?”

Relief shines on her too-pale face. “Oh – of course you can. Of course, yes, in fact that would be convenient...”

“Convenient?”

She doesn't appear to hear him. “When will you be going?”

He tells her, and she says, “That will be a long trip... but, perhaps it will be good for you, Koichi. You've been so quiet, lately, and you haven't been talking about Kinmochi at all, I know... mothers notice these things. Maybe it's my fault.”

“No, I just...”

“Oh, don't.” She purses her lips, forcing a smile. “Well. Good for you, yes. A vacation... You'll tell me all about it, when you return?”

He looks at her thin face. “...Of course, mother.”

Sumie's smile could outshine the sun.

* * *

 

Eventually, the child cannot help but notice that a new monument stone appears next to the one he visits at the cemetery. This one is quickly and summarily carved with a name. When Kura comes, he asks her about this.

“The cemetery is being haunted,” the boy's new friend says. “And this plot in particular. First people said it was a _kasha_ spirit, come to steal from the grave, and so the family who bought this plot will not use it. But others say the spirit of a wolf wanders through at night, mourning for his lost pack.”

Close enough, he thinks.

* * *

 

“Do you see him?”

Strabimon looks down.

The narrow beam of a flashlight sweeps past his position in the trees. His chromatic skin is always a boon against detection.

“You're going mad,” another voice says. “There are no wolves in Japan. Not anymore.”

“Then it's a ghost,” says the first voice. “But it looked more like a man than a wolf... It's here, I swear it. Every night, almost.”

“Haunting the grave,” says the second voice, long-suffering. “No wonder we cannot sell that space, if even our own workers say such things!”

“I am only telling you what I saw - “

“I'll post someone else in this section, if it bothers you so much.”

“That's not what I - !”

“Come. It will be light soon; if your 'wolf' is here, I am sure he will be hiding, anyway.”

Their voices start to move away. Strabimon looks after the pair in silence.

_It will be light soon._

* * *

 

“Why don't you carve it yourself?” Kura asks one day. “You're here so much, staring at it.”

The boy twitches guiltily. “I'm here to visit my uncle's grave. I told you.”

“You're always looking at the empty one, though,” Kura says. “It's alright. I won't say anything.”

He doesn't reply. But when Kura leaves, Strabimon waits until dark and lets his claws glow with a soft light. In the morning, the monument shimmers with the ethereal outline of a thousand spiraling feathers and regal wings.

He meant to make them look like the wings of a sphinx, but somehow they look more angelic, which seems fitting, too.

* * *

 

“Oh, Minamoto Koji!” A hand reaches down to touch his shoulder.

The boy turns, and is met with an unexpected sight. “Oh, hello, I...”

His old primary teacher, Ms. Kusatsu, smiles down at him. Suddenly, though, her smile falters. A light blush moves to her cheeks; she seems confused, uncertain. “Oh,” she says.

Hesitating at the woman's own shift, he asks, “Is something wrong?”

“I'm sorry,” she says, a little flustered. “It's just... for a moment, I thought you were one of my old students... you look so much like him.”

They stare at each other for a long moment.

“Well,” she says, “my apologies,” and she is gone.

* * *

 

“Have you changed your name, Koji?” jokes Mr. Ueshima, holding before him a paper. It again says _Koichi Kimura_ in neat kanji.

“Maybe I have,” he answers.

* * *

 

It is not inappropriate, really, to pretend the hollow monument has a purpose when there are no monuments for other people who matter. People like...

“Are you lost?”

The voice makes him wince, turning swiftly. He has been expecting Kura all day, but she is conspicuous in her absence. Before him instead is an older man, dressed carefully and suspicious of him. But the child relaxes as he takes in the man's garb. A caretaker for the dead, then.

“No,” he says. “Just... thinking.”

The man only nods, then. He starts to move away. Then a thought strikes the boy, and he raises a stalling hand up in the air, shifting his weight forward. A buzz of some uncertain fortune hits his tongue.

“I do have a question, though.”

The man pauses. “You may ask,” he says, after a beat. “I may answer.”

“You work on this land specifically – so, you know it?”

“Yes.”

“Then can you tell me anything about the Ichisada girl?”

There is a lengthy silence. The caretaker turns to face him more fully. “Who?”

“The granddaughter of the man who visits this plot, Ichisada Kura... she's here every day.” He gestures to the monument in question.

The caretaker looks at him for a long moment. “I have worked here for many years,” he says finally. “I don't know of any young girls that visit that plot, or of anyone in the Ichisada family named Kura. In fact, to my knowledge that entire family is dead. They were killed, you see, in a train accident just a few months ago.”

* * *

 

“You seem upset, Koichi,” Kinmochi says timidly.

“Don't talk to me.”

* * *

 

Kura takes one look at him, and says, “Ah. What have you discovered?”

Slowly, the boy lets the blue streams of data slip over his skin like a rain of sapphires. Strabimon looks up at the girl. She does not seem surprised.

“Who are you, really?”

 _“Koji,”_ She only sighs at him.

And that is when he realizes: he never actually told her his name.

Strabimon reaches out a clawed hand, and a name is on his lips; but a wash of data flies by his eyes, too quick to understand, and before he can blink the girl is gone.

* * *

 

Juro strides through the door and slams his luggage on the table in a clear display of bad-temper. The door to the Minamoto house shuts behind Emi quietly, almost absurdly by comparison.

The boy moves as though to walk to his room, glad to be done with the whole experience...

“This isn't what we wanted, Koji!”

This outburst from Minamoto Juro stirs the boy from his stupor. He pauses and finds himself tilting back his face, blinking up at his father. “Excuse me?”

“This vacation was meant to bring us closer together – and you did nothing but mope for five days!”

Behind Juro, Emi wrings her hands and sighs.

“I can't _make_ myself be happy.”

Emi frowns worriedly. But his father continues, “I feel like you don't even want to be a _part_ of this family!”

He says nothing.

“Koji,” his stepmother says. “Look... we wanted things to go better because, well... we have something to tell you. Something important.” She touches Juro's arm.

“Important?”

Juro turns his head, clearly too upset.

Emi takes a breath. “I'm pregnant.”

Silence.

“...Congratulations,” he replies finally. Blankly. “ - I – congratulations. Wow. You're going to be a mother.”

Emi looks hurt.

“You're going to be a _brother,”_ Juro emphasizes.

The boy just looks at him.

And then Emi touches her stomach. She smiles gently down at her stepson. And she adds, “We've decided on a name already.”

“Yeah?”

She ignores his disinterest. “It's a boy,” she says, “And we've decided to call him – Koichi.”

The world tilts.

_“I'm your brother...”_

“No... no!”

“Koji?”

“How could you?!”

“Koji!”

Turning on heel, he tears out of the house, ignoring the yells that grow fainter behind him. His vision grows dark and blurred. The savage ache blooming under his sternum pounds in time with his heart, and he realizes, finally, why his father tore apart their family years ago. Because they are _not_ family, because his father, his stepmother, are monsters -

It is Strabimon that finds himself drawn inexorably to Aoyama cemetery, heeding the pull of an instinct he can't define. It is Strabimon who circles the monument with no ashes, tilting back his head and howling his outrage to the clear sky.

It is Strabimon who hears, distantly, a voice he can never forget, rising and falling, pleading wordlessly in a voice meant only for him -

“Leave me alone,” he says. “Why can't you just leave me alone??”

_“Koji.”_

_“Koji.”_

_“KOJI.”_

With a roar, Strabimon draws back his arm. _“Darkness Hand!”_

The monument shatters like a pillar of ice.

Fragments of stone litter the ground, and small strings of data seep from the yawning hole where the column was once attached. Strabimon's vision is flickering; shadow is seeping into the edges of his vision. He closes his eyes, anger beating through his heart like a canker, and accepts the pull of that distant voice.

When the data finishes washing over him, he stands tall and looks down at the blades that have taken place of his hands, the skeletal faces that grin up from his forearms.

Some long-hidden knowledge is recognized, and settles. He should have known that there would be repercussions, he thinks, from mixing the spirits of dark and light.

Duskmon tilts his crimson sword toward the remnants of the pillar. It is no longer necessary; in fact, he barely recalls its purpose.

_“Lunar Plasma!”_

 


	3. Convergence

 “We don't have a choice, Flamemon! We have to tell Koji about this!”

Flamemon sighs. He's sitting in a backwards-turned chair in Tommy's room, giving his fiery tail room to smolder brightly behind him. “I know,” the digimon-boy says. “He's not going to like this, though...”

“Well, too bad for him,” says J.P. “I don't understand why we haven't been talking to him in the first place. What, after everything we've been through, suddenly he doesn't want anything to do with us?”

“Look, he just - !” Flamemon bites his lip. “ - He just – it's hard for him, dealing with Koichi's death, alright?”

Everyone falls quiet.

“We all miss Koichi,” says Zoe at last.

“But it's not the same. You know it's not.”

“It's not like they were _really_ brothers,” says J.P. “I mean, they just met.”

Zoe smacks his arm. “Junpei!”

“What?!”

“Of course they were brothers! And if you say anything like that to Koji - !”

“Hey, no, of course I wouldn't - “

“Then what did you mean by it - “

“I didn't - “

“ _Guys.”_ Flamemon growls out the word, making them jump.

“Isn't that just one more reason to be there for him?” asks Tommy quietly. “I mean, we're his friends, after all...”

“I'm not so sure Koji's the type who really wants company when he's upset... but, yeah, it's past time we talked to him anyway. And this - “ Flamemon flexes one of his overly-large hands for emphasis – “is just one more reason.”

“If nothing else, we can use you to get his attention,” J.P. mutters.

Everyone laughs nervously.

“Have any of you managed to digivolve yet?”

“Nope.”

“Nope.”

“Not me.”

“I bet when Tommy does it, he'll be so tiny we'll lose him,” J.P. adds.

“Aw, I will not.”

“Are you kidding? You shrink when you become Kumamon – at rookie-level, you might disappear!”

“Don't be so mean, J.P.,” Zoe teases, “Those are big words, coming from the guy who'll probably turn into an ittie bittie _bug.”_

J.P.'s face sours.

“Now what's _that_ supposed to - “

A knock comes at the door. “Tommy?”

Flamemon glows brightly.

“Yeah?”

By the time Yutaka opens the door, four children grin up at him – including a ruffled, only slightly singed Takuya.

Yutaka eyes them oddly. “...Dinner's ready?”

“Oh. Thanks.”

* * *

 

It shouldn't be hard to find Koji – they already know where he lives, after all, and Minamoto Emi knows Takuya's face, even if they hadn't parted on the best of terms last time. But when the group arrives at the Minamoto residence, wondering already how they're going to argue their way in, they don't find Koji.

“Oh, thank goodness,” says Emi as she opens the door. “Juro! His friends are here!”

They hear loud footsteps come from a distant part of the house.

“Please, come in – you _are_ Koji's friends, aren't you? That's why you're here?”

“Uh, yeah,” Takuya says.

“Were you expecting us?” asks Zoe.

They're ushered into the main room and sit down. Minamoto Juro joins them. He looks worn and a little upset.

“Did he tell you anything?” He asks abruptly.

And, okay, so maybe Takuya is thinking it was a bad idea to leave Koji alone, after all.

“Tell us _what?”_

“Where he is! Where he's gone?”

Tommy is the first to get it. “Are you saying Koji's gone?”

“That's horrible!” Zoe exclaims.

Juro stares at her, then at the rest of them. “So... you... you don't know.”

“We just came here to talk,” Takuya says. “Please – can you tell us what happened?”

Juro turns his head away. “No.”

“No?!”

“He's gone, alright? If you can't help, get out. We have enough to worry about.”

“Juro,” Emi murmurs.

“What? It's not like they were good friends of his; I've never seen them before in my life.”

“I've seen this one,” says Emi, gesturing at Takuya.

Juro ignores her. “Go, I said. Tell us if you hear from him.” And, apparently considering the matter settled, he rises to his feet and stomps from the room.

The children shout after him. Emi sighs. “I'm sorry,” she says, rising. “But there's nothing we can do for you.”

She moves to start gesturing them toward the door. But they aren't ready to go, not yet. “Hey, come on, lady!” J.P. shouts. “This is our friend we're talking about here! Can't you tell us anything?”

A brief flash of anger touches her face. “If I knew where my son was,” she says quietly, “I assure you, I would be doing something with that information.”

“Please,” Zoe pleads, “Isn't there anything?”

“I don't - “

“Not even why he might have left?”

Emi frowns at her. Sighing, she glances over her shoulder. Juro is well and gone; “...I don't fully understand, myself,” she says softly. “...I think Juro knows. It has to do with, well...” her hand drifts down to her stomach.

Zoe's eyes follow the gesture. At once, she understands, and gasps. “You're pregnant!” She exclaims.

“Yes. But that wasn't it. I was a little worried, but Koji didn't seem upset when we told him... not until we said what we planned on naming the baby. Koichi.”

The room goes silent.

Emi's eyes skitter over the group. “Wait. Do you know - “

“We need to go,” Takuya says.

“Oh my god,” says Zoe.

“What,” says J.P. _“What.”_

“We need to go,” Takuya repeats, and grabs Tommy by the hand. “Guys?”

Emi doesn't try to stop them. Perhaps she realizes there isn't a point.

They stumble out of the house half-dazed, blinking against the sun.

“Koichi,” Tommy whispers, but the soft sound rings like a shot. “ - Takuya, how _could they?”_

J.P. is unusually solemn. “I don't think she even knew, kid.”

“But _he_ did.”

None of them have an answer to this.

“...This gives us somewhere to start, though,” Takuya says at last.

“Does it?”

“Yeah.” Takuya looks up, squinting his eyes against the sky. “Remember? Koji was going to visit his mom... to tell her what happened to Koichi.”

“Do you think... do you think they kept talking, afterward?”

“I never asked him. But there's only one way to find out.”

* * *

 

“Something doesn't feel right.”

Takuya stops in the middle of the sidewalk. Zoe and Tommy stop, too. But J.P. keeps walking.

“Come on, Takuya. You've been weird since you got your spirit back. We need to hurry.”

“I'm telling you, something's not right.”

“We're in Japan,” J.P. says, annoyed now. “Come on, we're almost there.”

“I _sense - “_

“What's that even supposed to mean, you - “

“J.P.!” Zoe exclaims. “You should know better! Don't tell me you've already forgotten what it's like to have a spirit? Takuya is the only one who's made it to rookie so far. If he says something's wrong – listen!”

J.P. looks briefly surprised. Then, abruptly, the fight drains from him. “You're right,” he says. “I just hate being useless – we're all getting these abilities, but I don't 'sense' anything...”

“It'll happen,” says Tommy. “But for now... What is it, Takuya?”

“I don't know.” Takuya looks troubled. “Something... familiar. Really familiar. And really... dark.”

“Dark? I don't think we have anything _really_ dark in the human world.”

“I wouldn't be too sure.”

And it _does_  feel dark, suddenly, in an intangible way. Suddenly, Flamemon appears in the group's midst.

“Takuya!” Zoe exclaims.

J.P. and Tommy hastily move to stand in front of the digimon. “What if someone walks by, Takuya?” asks Tommy, too surprised to address the digimon by his proper name.

“It doesn't matter,” Flamemon breathes, eyes flashing emerald. “He's here.”

The sound of a blade being drawn makes them all turn.

Duskmon looks different in the dying light of these twilight hours, outside the familiar realm of the Dark Area. The red-irised eyes bulging from his chest, knees and shoulders blink slowly, as though dazed by the light.

His boots move almost silently across the ground. There is something deathly on the wind, something even the others feel, now. Perhaps something every human could feel; it might explain why the streets are strangely deserted.

In the digital-world, the Legendary Warriors only ever brought Duskmon to a stale-mate; in the end, Velgemon was only brought to his senses with the combined power of Aldamon and BeoWolfmon, who is conspicuously absent.

Bearing this in mind, the rookie-level Flamemon does the only possible thing.

He charges.

“Takuya!”

Duskmon stops walking. He waits, face blank, as Flamemon comes closer. Than, just before the rookie can strike, an oddly familiar voice announces the attack:

_“Deadly Gaze.”_

The eye on Duskmon's chest snaps open. A red beam flares into existence, and Flamemon rolls desperately to one side to avoid its burn.

The heat singes his fur just from proximity. A quick glance shows that none of his friends were hurt, so Flamemon looks back at Duskmon.

Who is still standing there. Bored.

_“Baby Salamander!”_

Unimpressed, Duskmon flicks one gleaming blade at the tiny burst of fire. It dissipates harmlessly.

_“Deadly Gaze.”_

Duskmon aims with his hands this time, too, sustaining the burst. Flamemon rolls around, forced into a desperate display of agility. He knows that, if Duskmon were really trying, it wouldn't be enough.

Duskmon takes a step forward.

“Spirit – Execute!”

Flamemon looks back. Tommy is holding up his cell-phone in the direction of Duskmon. There is a small beep. A sound of static.

“Pick on someone your own size,” J.P. says.

Slowly, slowly, Duskmon turns his head. He looks at the humans.

“...Or maybe... not...?”

Zoe grabs her own cell-phone. “I can do this,” she whispers. “I can! I know I can!”

 _It's not the phones!_ Flamemon wants to scream. Don't they understand – don't they realize -

_“Lunar Plasma!”_

Flamemon looks up just in time to see Duskmon raise his ribbed maroon sword and rush forward.

“No!”

A small green blur knocks into Flamemon from his left, and the blade sinks into the earth inches from where they fall.

“Zoe!” Flamemon exclaims.

The faerie digimon flutters off him, gasping. She has four arms, but no legs, and her insect-like wings give her the appearance of a strange, oddly beautiful bug despite the intelligent human eyes hiding behind a veil.

“I think it's Perimon,” is all she has time to say.

Duskmon is clearly displeased with this turn of events. He takes a swipe at this new nuisance – not quite a proper attack – but Perimon is quick.

_“Baby Salamander! Baby Salamander!”_

Flamemon's flames disappear harmlessly into Duskmon's side; he doesn't even seem to notice.

The next creature to launch itself forth goes almost unnoticed – a small digimon, pure white with coal-black eyes and tiny metal claws. It resembles an ermine, and as it slinks to Perimon's side and shoots a thin stream of ice in Duskmon's direction, a high voice yells, “Ebemimon!”

“And I'm always last,” mutters a voice. “ - GranKokuwamon!”

A spark of electricity flies off the giant pale Kokuwamon, crackling against Duskmon's armor.

“Together!”

Ice, flame, wind, and electricity spiral forth. But the attack lacks the explosive power that all of them remember. Duskmon jerks his sword again, and with a sweep of his hand dispels the attack.

They stop. This is the best they have.

A slow whisper creeps over the air, syllabic darkness crooning into their ears.

“ - My turn.”

This time, Duskmon doesn't hold back. He raises his sword and rushes at them, together. _“Lunar Plasma!”_

There's no time to dodge. Crimson steel flashes through the night – when did it become so dark? - and suddenly the warriors are lying on the ground, flickering, fading.

Flamemon struggles to sit up, and cannot. His skin pulses with the blue sheen of data. His code starts to rise from his body – and is that even possible, here, in this world? Can he be be stripped of himself? Or can something _worse_ happen?

Duskmon steps up. Looks down at them.

“Who are you?” Takuya whispers. He can hear Tommy crying, human again, and J.P. is trying vainly to rise. “Who are you...”

Duskmon tilts his head, eyes cold. A flicker of something – confusion? And then he raises a hand:

_“Memory Disturbance!”_

* * *

 

“Ughh...”

“Takuya!”

“Oh, he's awake!”

“Wha - ?”

Takuya blinks.

His mother and father are beaming down at him. More sober, Shinya is off to the side, hands clutched together nervously. Shinya's eyes are red and puffy.

“Do you know what happened, Takuya? Your friends couldn't explain anything...”

Memories rush back in an instant. _Yeah, I bet they couldn't._

“Where are they?” he asks instead.

“Who?”

“My friends... Were they...”

“Oh,” says his mother absently, “they came... they wanted to stay, but family only...”

“ _Who,_ Mom?”

She looks a little affronted at his tone. “A girl,” she says. “A younger boy, and someone your age... J.P?”

Takuya sags back in relief. Everyone, then.

“The doctors just want to run some tests,” his dad starts.

“No. I need to go.”

“What?! I – Takuya!”

Takuya has started to pull himself from the hospital bed; his mother pushes him back down with small but firm hands. “What do you think you're doing?” She demands.

“But I - “

“But nothing. You're going to stay right there, at least overnight. You _collapsed.”_

Takuya sits back, and thinks.

“...Okay,” he says, because he can say nothing else. “...But can I have my phone, at least?”

* * *

 

The others eventually plead and connive their way into the hospital. “What happened?”

“Duskmon went really weird,” J.P. says. “He used that move and just started staring into your eyes... we couldn't tell what was happening.”

“You didn't feel anything, did you, Takuya?” Tommy asks.

“I don't remember.”

“Then he just left,” Zoe says. “He looked so disturbed... Just like in the digital world, when Koichi was struggling to remember everything. Do you think this Duskmon is going through something like that?”

“But who could it be?” Demands J.P. “There are no more legendary warriors, not here.”

“There are those kids who came back, the ones who were with Angemon,” Tommy suggests.

“Yeah, but they never had spirits. That's different.”

Takuya shakes his head. “Look, we can think about this later. But we have more important things to worry about.”

“More important than _Duskmon?”_ J.P. demands. “Like what?”

Tommy gets it. “Like what they were doing there in the first place – right?”

Takuya nods. “More importantly... what he was doing around the Kimura place, with Koji missing.”

Everyone freezes.

“You don't...” Zoe's face is pale. “You don't think he hurt Koji, do you?”

“I don't know. But dark and light are natural enemies, aren't they? Maybe this is the enemy we're meant to face – maybe this is why our spirits are returning to us.” Takuya shifts on the hospital bed, pressing his fingers against the starch sheets. “Look. I'll get out of here as soon as I can. Don't go against Duskmon – it's useless. But work on digivolving, and look for Koji, okay? Try to find something at the Kimura place, during the _day,_ and... be careful.”

* * *

 

Kimura Sumie blinks. “Can I help you?”

“Hello. I'm sorry – I'm Zoe, this is Tommy and J.P. We're friends of your son.”

“Oh.” Sumie blinks. “I... And I don't suppose you've seen him recently, have you?”

“...No. We were hoping you had, actually.”

“I'm afraid not. It's not so unusual, though... I sometimes don't hear from him for days at a time...” Sumie stares off into the distance.

Zoe waits, because it seems like she's about to go on, but Sumie says nothing else. “...Ms. Kimura,” she prompts, causing the woman to start, “I was wondering if it would be possible for us to take a look around?”

“A look around?” comes the blank echo.

It's a strange question. Zoe is aware of this. She twists a lock of her own hair, tugging at it nervously. J.P. saves her.

...But not very tactfully.

“Look, can we just see Koichi's room, maybe?”

Eyes widening, Tommy jabs an elbow into J.P.'s gut. The older boy winces, but just glares down at him, unrepentant, and hisses, “Well? Were we supposed to dance around it?”

Sumie doesn't seem to be offended, even if she still seems a little puzzled. “Well... I suppose it can't hurt anything. If you really think it might help find my son... go ahead. Just a few minutes,” she adds.

“Of course,” Zoe says gratefully, sending a quick glare to J.P. He just smiles sweetly at her, then at Kimura Sumie.

Tommy stays by the door while Zoe and J.P. find Koichi's room, chattering inanely and clearly trying to buy them more time by distracting the woman. Zoe wonders privately if this is necessary. Her gaze is already distant, looking ahead at something far and invisible; perhaps Koichi's death had that affect on her, she thinks.

Koichi's room has the look of use; perhaps Koji's influence, if he has visited often. Hope rises. Perhaps there is something here, after all?

She and J.P. part to look around. J.P. starts to rifle through sheets of paper, shaking away loose pencils and charcoal sticks. Zoe puts aside tattered books, looking for anything unusual. Anything that says, _Koji._

She finds nothing.

“Hey, look at this,” J.P. interrupts.

“What?”

J.P. holds out a paper. “This... the charcoal looks pretty fresh, right? And look at the picture... It's a cemetery.” The kanji for _Aoyama Cemetery_ are clearly visible on a sign in the picture.

“That's morbid.”

“Yeah, but think. If this is recent – if _Koji_ drew this, what if that's where Koichi is? He might visit there, right?”

“Huh. It's worth a try... And we don't have anything else. We can ask Ms. Kimura.”

“Let's go.”

“First let's make sure we didn't miss anyth - “

“Guys! _Guys!”_

J.P. snaps his head around. “That's Tommy!”

They clutch their useless phones by instinct as they rush for the front of the house. But Duskmon isn't present. There's just Tommy, kneeling on the floor over the trembling form of Kimura Sumie.

“I'm fine,” she says. Her voice is coming in quick gasps. “I'm...”

She breathes in sharply, clutching at her chest.

“Call an ambulance!” Tommy yells.

Well, the phones are good for that, at least.

The ambulances take an eternity to arrive. After some brief discussion where it is essentially established that the children know nothing, Sumie is taken away.

“Should we have gone with her?” Zoe asks anxiously.

“No,” J.P. says, more firmly. “We can't waste any time. Not with Koji missing.”

Tommy takes a shaky breath. His face is white with stress. “Did you guys find anything?”

He doesn't hold much hope for the picture. But he nods, anyway. “All right. Let's go.”

* * *

 

Takuya sighs, picking at the sheets of his hospital bed. He hates this. He should be with the others, searching for Koji, but the real-world has a different set of rules. He can't simply do as he likes; here, he is still a child, and still subject to the laws of the world... and his parents.

Who, right now, are not present. Takuya worries at his lip, glancing at the open doorway. Nurses and doctors bustle by in the halls. He wonders if he could get away with leaving. Oh, his parents would be furious, no doubt, but he could do it. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, they say.

As he contemplates this, a flash of familiar dark hair is swept by in the hallway, wheeled through on a gurney. Doctors are shouting orders. As the noise dies and fades, it takes Takuya a moment to register the sight.

“Ms. Kimura!” He shouts.

A nurse pokes her head inside the room curiously. Ignoring her, Takuya shoves himself from the bed, swaying slightly.

“Excuse me,” says the nurse, stepping in. “Are you supposed to - “

Takuya shoves past her, already concerned with more pressing matters. He takes a deep breath. “Ms. Kimura!”

* * *

 

Aoyama cemetery is beautiful even in winter. “This is a good place for Koichi,” says Zoe quietly.

“If he is here,” Tommy says.

“I bet he is. It just feels like it, doesn't it? Like you can feel his presence...”

“Don't get all soft-eyed on me now,” grumbles J.P. He sniffs a little, and turns so they can't see his face. “Anyway, we can try to visit Koichi later. We're looking for _Koji_ now.”

“And Duskmon,” Tommy adds.

“Yeah... But where do we start?”

After some contemplation, it seems easiest just to ask one of the workers. Indeed, the first worker they find tells them that a dark-haired boy who 'often' wore a blue bandanna came by almost every day, and directs them to the site.

“I should warn you, though,” he tells them, “It might be a little disturbing.”

“Disturbing?”

“The grave has been desecrated.”

'Desecrated' turns out to be a... mild word.

“This isn't 'desecrated',” J.P. says, once the man has left them. “This thing has been blown to bits.”

“...You... You think it was Duskmon?” Tommy asks quietly, staring at the deep scorch marks in the earth, the shattered stone.

Before anyone can answer, a shadow falls over the four. As though the sun were blotted out, mist starts to coil over the cemetery.

And now, none of them need an answer.

Ebemimon dodges behind the nearest monument as GranKokuwamon takes the place of J.P., holding his ground. Perimon flutters in place, trying vainly to blow away the enshrouding mist.

“We know you're here!” GranKokuwamon says. “Don't be a coward!”

“Where's our friend?” Perimon demands.

Duskmon raises his sword. It gleams red, shining through the fog.

“Alright, then,” Perimon mutters. _“Perilous Wind!”_

The twisting spiral of wind is batted away with a careless swipe of Duskmon's sword. GranKokuwamon looks over at Ebemimon; the small ermine digimon takes the hint, diving out from his hiding-spot and taking shelter by the mechanical-bug's side.

Together, they combine their attacks into a blast of ice and electricity. This, too, has no apparent effect.

“There's only three of us,” Perimon shouts. “We have to run!”

Duskmon takes a step forward.

“I don't know if running is an option!” Ebeminon yells.

* * *

 

Duskmon knows these enemies. The one he serves led him to their voices, muffled but distinct through the shadows of the world. But Duskmon would have known them anywhere. When they move, their footprint resonates upon the world. They resonate like him. He could not fail to identify himself, surely.

(He said as much to the one he serves, but the shining one only laughed. That is alright. The one he serves can be difficult to understand, but Duskmon does not need to understand to obey).

The enemies are small and fragile before him. Their fighting makes vague memories start to stir... but these, too, are irrelevant. Only the present matters.

Ebemimon slides stomach-first on the ground, and Duskmon observes clinically as the tiny rookie approaches, comes forward, and rockets into his abdomen.

Ebemimon bounces off with a soft 'oof'.

Duskmon shifts his stance.

_“Deadly Gaze.”_

Ebemimon and Perimon cry out as they're thrown backward. GranKokuwamon launches himself forward.

“Stop that!”

_“Lunar Plasma.”_

One slice of Duskmon's blade leaves the insect on the ground, shimmering and flickering with shards of data.

Easy. Something stirs in Duskmon's mind. This is the part where he does... something. He can see the glimmer of spirits rising from the children... but what does he do with them? What does...

_“Pyro Tornado!”_

Duskmon falls to his side in a blast of flame, stumbling.

The sight that meets his eyes is momentarily unfamiliar, but a name matches with the face quickly enough; Agunimon. The Warrior of Flame has arrived, and digivolved.

“Agunimon!” Perimon yells. “Did you find Koji?”

“No,” Agunimon calls, bleak. “His mother's dead – Kimura Sumie is dead. We're on our own, guys...”

Duskmon stills.

“Hey, what's he doing? Guys?”

Kimura Sumie.

Dead?

When a human dies, yes, it is like... like...

Duskmon lets his eyes linger over the damaged graves around him. _Dead,_ he thinks. Ashes and pieces, immobile. Non-functioning. Nothing left.

Kimura Sumie.

His vision is red. The enemy, Agunimon, is starting toward Duskmon with flaming fists raised into the air. And Duskmon, full of rage, leaps.

Changes.

_Shifts._

* * *

 

“You've got to be kidding me,” breathes GranKokuwamon.

Velgemon screeches as he dives talons-first at Agunimon. The warrior of flame leaps to the right, rolling hurriedly in a rush to avoid this attack. Duskmon was enough of an impediment without Koji's presence; Velgemon, in their current state, seems surely insurmountable.

A memory comes to Agunimon.

Koji once told him that retreat is sometimes the only choice. And Takuya had called him a coward. Had said that together they could overcome anything, but -

But. They are not together.

Koji is gone.

“Run,” he says.

And the others turn and stare.

“Didn't you hear me?” He breathes. “ - Run!”

And they do.

Velgemon follows them at a steady pace, not flapping his wings. He has the lazy intensity of a vulture, and the surety of a predator whose prey may as well be dead.

A low, almost languid hum fills the air.

“Hurry!” Ebemimon cries.

_“Dark Obliteration.”_

 - The destruction is quiet.

One moment, Agunimon sees his friends on either side of him, the bare trees of Aoyama all around, the solemn graves. The next, he is dizzy; crushed in an endless abyss. In the interminable breath where he floats through this darkness, he is vaguely startled to look ahead, and think:

This is still the cemetery.

And, also: the cemetery is gone.

And then he is sinking, and thinking nothing at all, with only the red of Velgemon's eyes to light the way.

* * *

 

It is anticlimactic, when the angel arrives.

He comes from the ground, from the distortion Velgemon has opened in Aoyama cemetery. His brightness and beauty illuminates the dark places of the world, and he is blinding.

And after the angel collects the free-standing data from the slumped warriors, they rouse slowly. Children again, they cower together on the ground, and look up at him like frightened petitioners.

“We purified you,” Zoe whispers. “You were light...”

“But what is light can so _easily_ be touched by the darkness,” Lucemon sighs. “Look at your own friend, after all.”

They seem puzzled. Angry. Velgemon hisses.

“For, you see, data is never fully destroyed. You did not think it was so easy – that you could _actually_ defeat me? I remembered myself eventually, as fragments of myself were returned to me... it was not, of course, an easy task. The lesser angels tried to hide my true self. The knowledge of who I really am. But I prevailed, in the end, as I always do, for they are weak still...”

“Ophanimon will never allow this!” J.P. shouts.

“Unless it has escaped your notice – she already has. Your world is now my utopia... But first. I must secure my reign, and be certain the legendary warriors never arise again. Velgemon?”

In that moment, Velgemon understands.

In a swirl of visible shadow, the tainted Warrior of Darkness is replaced by a small human child. It is this lost figure who slowly approaches the smilingly benevolent digimon standing before the warriors.

Lucemon flutters his arching wings, letting himself hover and look down at his supplicant. He tilts his head, sighing at something only he can see. It is a sigh almost of pity. “The grief and despair in your heart gave me the opening I needed,” Lucemon murmurs.

The child of dark and light is silent. He looks back at his once-friends, broken, splayed on the ground like the crumbled statues of a lost age, as they stare up at him in sudden horror.

“Koji,” Takuya implores.

“Will I be able to see him again,” The boy asks. “...My brother?”

A small smile curves over the angel's lips. “Yes. Forever and ever.”

Koji nods, then. “Alright.”

Lucemon spreads his wings, bright and glorious against a red sky. He reaches out to touch the boy's chest, and the Warrior of Light almost imagines he can see his brother as he dies, reaching out for him through the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> *Strabimon is a real digimon; you can see him on the digimon wiki, at http://digimon.wikia.com/wiki/Strabimon


End file.
